Yesterday Once More
by pennandink
Summary: Estranged from her husband, Virginia Pierce enlists in the Army in the hopes of forgetting her former life. Only she never imagined the war would be so cruel as to drop her in the same unit as the man who broke her heart. But as circumstances force her to rely on Hawkeye for strength, she wonders if war could be the very thing to bring them back together...
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

_Hell is_

_loving you in my sleep_

_and waking up alone._

_Somewhere over Asia. October, 1950._

With shaking fingers, Virginia Elizabeth Pierce unfolded the photograph and pressed it against her leg. No bigger than her palm, the picture held worn and faded memories of a foolishly happy time. She ran her finger across the figures in the photo: dressed in their Sunday best, newly married and laughing without fear of the future. Hard creases pressed in zig-zags across the smiling faces revealed the months in which the photo had laid crammed in the bedside drawer, carelessly placed, never quite forgotten. Seeing the photo after ignoring its whispered call for so long brought a lump to her throat. Stinging tears rose to her eyes, and she shoved the photo in her breast pocket. Those foolishly happy days were long gone.

Their parting had been honest in a time when honesty between them was rare. He'd held her close; she'd squeezed his shoulders, his draft card crumpled in her fist. She'd confessed her love over and over, as if to reassure them both that, yes, she still loved him. He'd responded in kind only once, but the emotion swimming in his gray-blue eyes as he said it was enough.

Yet they'd made no promises. Perhaps, in that stolen moment on the station platform, they'd both known the war would sever whatever ties still bound them. Then he'd kissed her, and it was both the first time and the last time, a mixture of sparks and resignation, joy and pain. Her girlish heart had fluttered, hoped beyond hope they could mend the rift, but when he'd pulled away and disappeared into the crowd, she knew her hopes were for naught. Hawkeye—_Benjamin_—was gone, and she was left to pick of the pieces of their thrown-together life.

The aircraft lurched, and Virginia grabbed her armrest. Her nails dug into the squishy material.

"Nervous?" A voice tore Virginia from her thoughts. She turned to glance at an officer standing in the aisle. He stood tall, his arms braced against the overhead compartment. Cigarette smoke drifted from his parted lips, and an amused twinkle lit his eye.

Virginia shifted in her seat. She sat straighter and released her death-grip on the armrest. "I would be lying if I said I wasn't."

"Where you headed…" The officer's eyebrows rose as he took in her uniform. "Captain?"

"Captain Pierce." Virginia held the man's gaze then amended, "Dr. Pierce, actually."

"A lady doctor." He took a drag of his cigarette and puffed the smoke in her direction. She gritted her teeth against the urge to cough. "Didn't know the army allowed that."

"Well, you learn something new every day, Lieutenant."

He ruffled at her use of rank and stepped back. "You didn't say where you're headed."

"MASH Unit 4077."

"I'll keep that in mind, try and stay clear of there if I get wounded. I wouldn't trust a lady to sew me up."

"I'll keep that in mind if you end up on my table. I wouldn't want to go against a patient's wishes."

The Lieutenant huffed, ground his half-finished cigarette with his heel, and stalked up the aircraft aisle.

Virginia fell back against her seat and sighed. She'd joined the army for a change of pace, a distraction from the lonely apartment and empty bed. War—bloodied bodies and sleepless nights—was sure to keep thoughts of Hawkeye at bay. But she'd also joined the army to do some good. She'd fought her way tooth and nail through medical school. From nurse to surgeon, she'd shown herself capable and competent. Now the army was giving her a chance to prove herself. But prove herself to whom? She wasn't sure—not yet anyway.

Rifling through her pocket, she withdrew her post assignment and ran through the details once more. MASH Unit 4077; she'd committed the number to memory long ago. It would be her new home for the foreseeable future. A nervous bubble of excitement burst in her stomach, and Virginia fought the urge to smile. Once the wheels of the aircraft hit the ground, her life would never be the same. Of that she was sure.


	2. Chapter 1

_I just want to know_

_Do you dream of me too?_

_MASH Unit 4077. October, 1950._

An Army issued Jeep rolled into 4077 under the cover of night, guided by a smattering of stars and the light of a crescent moon. Gravel and dirt crunched beneath the heavy wheels of the vehicle, and Virginia swayed in time with the uneven ground as the camp grew closer and closer. All was still. Delays on the tarmac meant her scheduled arrival time had long since come and gone, but she hadn't expected the base to feel like a tomb. The cold midnight air and eerie silence put a skip in her heartbeat. She'd thought there would be some sign of life, some human activity, no matter the hour. Yet the camp was empty.

The driver cut the engine beneath a wash of light emanating from the hospital windows. He hopped from his seat and unloaded Virginia's few belongings while she steeled her nerves. She pressed her moist palms to her uniform skirt. Oh hell, she was already nervous and had yet to hear an incoming chopper or cut open her first patient. Some volunteer she was.

"Captain, this is your stop."

"It is, isn't it?" Virginia offered the driver a pinched smile as she slid from the vehicle. Her legs wobbled once her feet hit solid ground. "Thank you." Loath as she was to admit it, she wished the driver didn't have to leave quite yet. Once he was gone, the war began and she would be left to figure out a new normal.

He caught her glance around the empty field and shrugged. "I guess everyone's grabbing whatever sleep they can." He pointed toward the hospital doors. "You may be able to find somebody to get you settled in there."

"Again, my thanks. You're certainly more knowledgeable than I am." Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she swallowed hard. "I suppose I'm just a little nervous."

The driver reached out and gave her shoulder a hearty squeeze. "You'll do fine."

Virginia nodded, her lower lip caught between her teeth. He was right; she would do fine. After all, she had no choice but to do fine.

With a short wave and wish of good luck, the driver returned to the Jeep and sped away. Virginia watched until the headlights disappeared around a bend in the road and she could no longer hear the rumble of the engine. Her chest tightened. She was truly alone now in the middle of a foreign country on the other side of the world. Her husband was God-knew-where. And even if she did manage to communicate with him somehow, she had little to say…

She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and brushed all thoughts of her crumbled marriage away. She'd left the States to start afresh, do something worthwhile with her life. Wiling away her time thinking of Hawkeye was counterproductive. Such things would not serve her well here.

The driver had suggested she look to the hospital for help, so Virginia took his advice. Thankful to see a few figures through the small square window on the door, she shouldered her way into the Post-Op ward. The air smelled of cleanser and a hint of sweat. Each of the beds contained an injured man, their wounds covered by white gauze or a cast. Melancholy permeated the crowded room, the heavy mood carried by both the wounded and medical staff. Though most of the patients slept soundly, even in their sleep, waves of regret and anxiety etched lines on their young faces. The two nurses on duty sat with tired eyes and stooped shoulders. One nurse played with the ring on her left hand, her stare glazed over, lost in memory. To Virginia's left, a woman sat behind a desk. She tapped the pen in her hand to a uniform beat, her chin on her palm, eyes on the clock on the far wall. Virginia clear her throat and stepped into the woman's line of sight.

"Excuse me—I was wondering if you might be able to help me find whoever is in charge. Coronel Blake, I believe?"

The woman startled in her seat. Life rushed into her face as she refocused her attention on the present world. "Damn, you scared me!" Her deep brown eyes took in Virginia's uniform and her brow drew tight. "Are you the new surgeon?"

Virginia nodded and readjusted her hold on her suitcase. "Yes, I am. My flight was delayed so I missed coming in this afternoon. I didn't expect to get here so late."

The woman stood and offered her hand. "Well, we're happy to have you here just the same. My name's Ginger."

"Virginia," she said. "Sorry to scare you." She shook Ginger's hand and felt some of the tension ease from her shoulder. Perhaps she had been nervous for nothing.

Ginger brushed the apology aside with a wave of her fingers. "It's nearly impossible to not doze off in one way or another on the night shift—especially when there's nothing going on. Have you met Margie yet?"

With a laugh, Virginia shook her head. "You're the first person I've met so far."

"Margie Culter's your tent-mate. It's late so I'm sure you're pretty beat. I can show you to your tent, if you like?"

"That'd be very helpful."

"Follow me." Ginger headed toward the backdoor, pausing only to speak to her fellow nurse on duty. "Alice, can you watch the place for a bit?"

Alice, the woman who'd been lost in thought and fiddling with her ring, looked up from the floor and sighed. "I suppose. I doubt anything pressing will happen while you're gone."

"If anything does happen, call for me." Ginger glanced at Virginia, her eyes rolling skyward. She jerked her head toward the door and started outside. "Alice can be a real pain. When her husband enlisted, she tried to follow him. But he's somewhere up north and she's stuck with us."

"Oh." Virginia frowned. "Did many of the nurses try and pull that kind of stunt? Follow a man?"

Ginger pulled her jacket tighter and shrugged. "I couldn't say. I enlisted to get away from a man." Though her eyes were clouded with unspoken words, her tone was light and airy.

Virginia's mouth pulled into a wry smile. "You and me both."

The pair walked in silence for a few moments, brought to quiet by a bitter blast of wind. Virginia ducked her head and wished she'd worn the scarf stuffed deep in her suitcase.

"That's The Swamp." Ginger broke the silence and pointed toward a large tent in the center of the road. Rays of yellow light broke through the cracks and lifts in the walls, making it easier to see the curving path they walked. From inside came the sound of raucous laughter and loud voices. "Stay clear of there while you can."

Interest piqued, Virginia studied the ramshackle building. "Why's that?"

"Those are your fellow surgeons. They're good guys when they want to be, but they're mostly loud drunks. Always trying to pull a fast one on some poor soul."

"Noted."

"This is your tent." Ginger stopped at a smaller tent placed on the bend in the road and knocked on the door. Seconds passed before the door opened to reveal a slight woman with bright blue eyes and girlish freckles. "Sorry to bother you so late, Margie, but this is Virginia, the new surgeon."

Recognition dawned on Margie's face and she smiled. "Oh gosh, I almost forgot you were coming today. Come on in."

Virginia thanked Ginger for her help and bid her a goodnight before following her new roommate into the tent. A blanket of warmth from the barrel heater circled her as the door clattered shut.

"You can take that bed there." Margie pointed to an empty military cot on the far right of the room. "I'm sorry if it's a mess," she said as she scooped personal items and clothing from the floor. "I've been without a roommate so long I nearly forgot what it's like to share a tent this small."

Glancing around the cramped space, Virginia dropped her suitcase on the cot. It squeaked and groaned yet held firm. Dust from the long unused blankets drifted into the air. Despite that, when she sat down, her body all but gave out and collapsed on the narrow bed. A contented sigh escaped her lips, and she rubbed a hand down her face. She hadn't realized how tired she was…

"You must be tired." Margie's voice was soft and understanding, but Virginia could hear the curiosity underlying her comment.

"It was certainly a long day." Virginia pulled off her boots and massaged her sore arches. All she wanted was to curl underneath a blanket and grab whatever sleep she could. Who knew the next time she would be able to get a full night's rest? Somehow, she doubted she would get the chance to sleep soon.

"Where are you from?"

"Maine," Virginia said, fighting the urge to lay down and close her eyes. "Not originally—I was born in Philadelphia—but my husband and I lived in Maine."

"I hear that area is beautiful. I've never been there myself." Margie hesitated then leaned forward, her gaze intense. "You're really a surgeon?"

Virginia looked up from her opened suitcase. "Why do you sound so surprised?"

"When we got word the new surgeon was a woman…" She shrugged, a pretty pink lighting her cheeks. "Well, I guess we weren't expecting that. You're all the nurses have been able to talk about the last couple of days."

"Honestly, I didn't think the Army would let me enlist as a surgeon. I figured I'd be a nurse. But there was a need for surgeons and not enough men to fill the positions. Seems they're already here. So, I got the job." Virginia stood as she began to unbutton her uniform and change into her nightgown. "It's not that glamorous or exciting."

"I don't know about that." Margie slipped beneath her covers and reached to turn off the lamp beside her bed. "All the surgeons here are men. I think it'll be nice to have a female doctor around for a change."

Virginia swallowed hard. She knew coming into the military as a woman would be hard—especially as a female surgeon. Few outfits allowed women the position. In her case, however, the Army would be foolish to say no. She volunteered, after all. What she hadn't expected was Margie's unspoken expectations.

But she was too tired to dwell on that now.

She finished changing her clothes and undid the tight bun at the base of her skull. The dull headache which had been grinding her brain most of the afternoon eased. Slipping into the warmth of her cot felt like a taste of heaven. Though the blanket was rough and frayed around the edges and the bed squeaked every time she moved a muscle, she'd never felt so comfortable. All the aches in her shoulders released. Her mind fell still, empty and serene. Her eyelids fluttered shut, lulled by the gentle ticking of Margie's clock.

"Do you want me to wake you for breakfast in the morning?"

Virginia, nearing the edge of sleep, had to process Margie's words several times before she responded. "Sure, that would be fine," she mumbled into her pillow.

"Goodnight then. I think we'll get along just fine. So long as you promise not to steal my hairbrush on the sly."

The corner of Virginia's mouth quirked upwards in response. She fell into a dreamless sleep seconds later.

Morning dawned long before she was ready. The sounds of life woke her—laughter and footsteps on the hard-packed earth. Somewhere outside a PA system announced the evening's lecture and movie selection. Sitting up, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stretched her back. A spring had dug into her shoulder blade the entire night, leaving her sore, but at least she felt somewhat rested. Rested, but not prepared. Butterflies had taken shelter in her stomach, and when Margie encouraged her to change and get ready for breakfast, the butterflies flapped their wings and quickened Virginia's heartbeat. It felt grade school all over again—the nerves, the sweaty palms, the upset stomach. However, she was determined to go into the mess tent with confidence. Fake confidence, but what the others didn't know wouldn't kill them.

Dressed in her green khakis and with jingling dog tags, Virginia and Margie walked side-by-side to breakfast. Margie was a sweet girl. Virginia supposed she was a few years younger than her own twenty-six but what the girl lacked in age she made up for in spirit and encouragement. She directed Virginia to the back of the over-crowded breakfast line, all the while shouting over the cacophony of voices to finish telling Virginia about her stint as her high-school mascot.

"Good morning, Virginia. Did you sleep okay?" Ginger sidled up alongside Virginia, metal tray in hand.

"I think if you can't remember how you slept it means you slept well." Virginia offered her tray to the cook to receive a helping of bacon and eggs. She moved down to grab a slice of bread and pour herself a cup of coffee. "So yes, I slept okay."

"Remember that. It'll be a long time before you sleep like a normal person again." She nodded to an empty table on the far side of the mess. "Why don't you go grab that table for us?"

Virginia slipped between the bodies occupying every inch of empty space to make her way to the table. Once she reached the table, she set her tray down and breathed a sigh of relief, making a mental note to wake earlier if she wanted a quiet breakfast. She reached for her cup of coffee, the heat of the mug traveling through her cold and shaking fingers. Caffeine wouldn't mix well with her nerves, but she needed whatever help she could get on this brisk morning. The first sip burnt her tongue and a bitter taste coated the roof of her mouth. Making a face, she pulled back and glanced inside. Black; she'd forgotten the milk. She rose from her seat as Margie and Ginger came to their spot on the bench.

"I forgot some milk," she said as she made to return to the dwindling line.

Only something caught her eye, something familiar but almost forgotten. Something personal and private. Something reserved for her and her alone.

Virginia stopped in her tracks. The muscles in her arms went tight, and her stomach churned. Her fingers no longer registered the heat of mug.

Hawkeye sat with his arm draped around a blonde nurse, his head bent near her ear, and that same lazy smile that had grabbed Virginia's attention all those years ago. The nurse laughed at his whispers and playfully batted away at his hand as it crept toward her thigh.

Bile rose in Virginia's throat. The mug in her hand slipped, crashed to the floor. Hot liquid splashed onto her leg, but she couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't…

At the sound, Hawkeye's attention snapped from the nurse to the commotion. His eyes locked with Virginia's. His jaw went slack.


	3. Chapter 2

_I suggest vodka._

_MASH Unit 4077. October, 1950._

The last person Hawkeye expected to see at breakfast was his wife. In truth, he expected he'd sooner see President Truman or his great-grandmother on the front before his wife. And his great-grandmother was dead! But there Virginia stood, with that same bewildered look on her face as the day he'd proposed.

A tray clattered to the table. Trapper dropped to the bench. He shoveled eggs into his mouth and motioned for Hawkeye to resume his meal. "Hawk, your jaw is scrapin' the floor. You're gonna catch flies or somethin'."

Hawkeye blinked, Trapper's words pulling him from Virginia's horrified stare. The arm draped around Emily's shoulders suddenly felt as if a thousand hornets were stinging his skin. He drew his arm away, stumbling to his feet like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Trapper's coffee mug jostled with the force of his movement. The mug tipped and soaked Trapper's tray with brown sludge.

"Hey! What's the big idea?!" Trapper reached for Hawkeye's unused napkin and attempted a rescue mission on his food.

Emily's slim hand rose to meet Hawkeye's elbow. "Hawkeye? Is everything okay?"

Before he could muster an explanation, both for his wife and his current paramour, Virginia bolted from the mess tent, shouldering her way through the sudden onslaught of men and women crowded around the door. He moved to jump over the bench, but the toe of his left boot caught on the lip and he went sprawling to the floor instead. Pain shot through his arm and embarrassment crawled up the back of his neck. Emily gasped, Trapper shouted something obscene, but Hawkeye was on his feet and fighting through the crowd before either could come to his aid. The bodies around the door coagulated like blood. Engrossed in their conversation, lost to the anxiety coursing through Hawkeye's body, they stood solid and unmovable. Leave it to the cooks to back the line up at a time like this!

Hawkeye could just make out Virginia's soft mahogany waves over a bald head. God, if he got out there and she was gone, he was a dead man. Who was he kidding? There was a war on and his wife had just caught him with his arm around another woman in a more than friendly embrace. He was already a dead man.

A wave of urgency swept through him when he no longer had his eye on her. "Move it, will ya?" He pushed the shoulder of a squat kid with a round pimply face standing directly in his path. "Damn it, move!"

Dozens of wide eyes pinned him with shocked looks. Conversation ceased, the air tense with unspoken questions. Hawkeye's hands curled into fists at his side, but before he could say another word, the crowd parted down the middle. He rushed out in the chilly morning air. His eyes scanned the compound for any sign of Virginia and when he caught sight of her, he ran.

"Virginia!" He sounded like an idiot, he was sure, calling after her like he did. The voice coming from his mouth was so unlike the composed, confident face he put forward every day. Strangely, he couldn't find a reason to care. He picked up his pace, lunging forward to grab her arm before she could disappear around the corner. "Beth, I—"

Her palm connected with his cheek. The slap echoed, loud and sudden. His fingers itched to rub the wounded flesh, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing she'd hurt him. He deserved it, after all.

"Don't you ever call me that!" Her cheeks were blotchy, flushed with anger and humiliation. Bright green eyes starred daggers back at him. To her credit, she wasn't crying. Then again, she'd always been a shouter, not a crier. Only when her shouting would inform the whole unit of their marital troubles, he thought might prefer tears.

His use of her nickname—a shortened version of her middle name—had not worked the way he thought it would. In days gone by, the endearment had always calmed her when angry or brought a pretty blush to her cheeks in moments of passion. Not anymore. It seemed those days were long gone.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He struggled to keep his voice under control, but he couldn't keep the frustration at bay much longer. It was moments like these he wondered why he married at all.

"Serving my country. What are you doing? Playing doctor with every nurse in the unit?" Virginia struggled under his hold on her shoulders, distain contorting her soft features.

Hawkeye released his hold and put his hands on his hips. "I got drafted, if you remember? I didn't up and make an extended reservation for this hell-hole."

"Oh, don't be trite, Benjamin." The vein in the center of her forehead bulged, her lips pulling tight in a scowl. "You ignored my question. What were you doing with that nurse?"

A lump rose in Hawkeye's throat. He tossed a glance to the side, as if to search for a good excuse. None came to mind. When Virginia spoke again, her voice had gone quiet, almost a whisper. He looked at her, saw tears glistening in her eyes, and felt the fist of God Almighty sock him in the stomach.

"How long did you wait before you found someone else?" Her chin trembled. "How long did it take for you to forget me?"

His mouth ran dry, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He'd been in this situation before, in high-school, med school, and now the army. He'd never wanted for an answer. However benign or untrue made no difference to him, so long as he could move on to another willing girl with ease. But then Virginia had come along, they'd married, and he never thought he'd have to answer that question again.

"That's what I thought," she whispered.

"Virginia…"

She held up a hand. The rising sun glinted off her wedding band. "Just stay away, Hawkeye." Turning on her heel, she bent against the wind and hurried toward her tent.

Hawkeye couldn't find the will to move. He stood in the road, feet planted like roots, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Around him, life resumed. People filtered out of the mess with trepidation, their conversation muted when they passed him by. Somewhere a car engine revved and he swore he could hear a record play "You're Breaking My Heart." He almost laughed; how fitting. The sound of choppers finally tore him from his trance. The whirling blades and PA system calling for assistance forced him to move. Nurses and doctors pounded the ground on all sides as he made his way back to The Swamp. His off-shift couldn't have fallen at a better time for he was in no state of mind to operate on a battle-wounded kid. What he needed was a stiff drink, a smoke, and a nap.

The door to The Swamp creaked as he entered the solace of his tent. Dumpy as it was, it was home. The scent of fresh alcohol, stale clothes, and soap had long since replaced the memory of Virginia's perfume. Even at night, he was hard-pressed to remember what it felt like to sleep by her side. The Swamp was his here and now, his constant, as much as he hated to admit it.

Stepping over the trash on the floor, he reached for a glass. The first sip of gin eased the dull ache in the back of his head, but did nothing to work at the gnawing around his gut. Dropping to his chair, he groaned and closed his eyes. Before long, restless energy got the best of him. He rose and walked to the square shelves above his bed, reaching for the tin case hidden behind a photo of his childhood home. He opened the case and swallowed hard. Inside were all his mementos of Virginia and their life together: his wedding ring, a blue hair ribbon he'd stolen from her drawer in medical school, a photo snapped on their wedding day. He turned the wedding photo over and read her swirling script: _You and me against the world – VP_

The door opened and a pair of heavy boots entered the tent, bringing with them a whirl of cold air. Clearing his throat, Hawkeye shoved the photo back in the tin before hiding the box again. He downed the last of his gin and poured another glass before turning to face Trapper.

Trapper wasted no time in launching his assault. "You gonna tell me what all that was about?"

"I thought you were on shift." Hawkeye lowered himself to a sitting position. He leaned his head back against a wood post and closed his eyes, focusing on the hum of a generator outside.

"I switched with the Father. Don't worry about it." A chair scraped against the floor, stopping too close to Hawkeye's spot on his cot. Trapper meant business. He kept his eyes shut. "I'm not gonna ask you again, Hawk. What the hell happened back there?"

Hawkeye tossed back his martini and winced against the burn in his throat. "My wife happened."

"Your wife?!" Trapper did little to mask the surprise in his voice. His brows rose to the top of his forehead, his eyes eye with shock.

"Yep—Mrs. Virginia Pierce." Hawkeye handed Trapper his glass and motioned for another drink. "Forget the olive," he said. "Just give it to me straight. I think I need to be drunk for the next week."

Instead of doing as asked, Trapper set the glass aside and skewered Hawkeye with a dark look. "You're married and you never told me?"

The pit in Hawkeye's stomach deepened as he saw the betrayal deepen on his friend's face. He kept quiet, knowing the silence was answer enough. Trapper turned away, his mouth tight and eyes downcast. He rubbed a hand over his unshaven jaw.

"What's she doing here?"

"Probably trying to save the world."

Trapper's gaze worked its way back to Hawkeye. The confusion and mistrust there mirrored the pain Hawkeye had seen flood Virginia's eyes. He shifted in his seat, unable to displace the raw ache in his gut.

"Why'd you never tell me?" Trapper's soft-spoken question filled every corner of the room. Hawkeye couldn't get away from it—no matter how much he wanted to.

"I thought going around as an unmarried man might make it easier to be away from her."

Bullshit, but Hawkeye couldn't tell him the truth. Couldn't tell him how, despite his best intentions, he'd failed as a husband more times than he'd care to count. Couldn't tell him how he'd broken Virginia's heart time and time again yet she forgave him each time, no matter the injury to her pride. Couldn't tell him it was just easier to forget her, forget their life together, than continue screwing it up.

But Trapper didn't buy it. He rose from his seat and began to pace, his brow furrowed in thought as he worked through Hawkeye's deception. "You never mentioned her once. You'd think in months of living together you'd slip up, but you didn't. And you've only ever gotten letters from your father. So, what's the real story, pal?"

"There is no real story," Hawkeye said, his voice a little too agitated, a little too vulnerable, for his own liking. He quickly reached for his discarded glass and moved toward the still. Trapper cut him off with an arm in his path.

"No, sir, you can't drink anymore. Not until you tell me the truth."

"Get lost, Trapper." Hawkeye's eyes rolled skyward as he pushed past the obstacle. Instead of pouring himself a drink, he sipped from the ever-full pitcher. His vision was beginning to blur and the ground felt unsteady beneath his boots. Both good things.

"Well, you're gonna have to answer to somebody, Hawkeye. Henry's already gotten wind of this and he ain't happy. You lied on your paperwork. You could get court-martialed or somethin'."

Sprawled out on his bed with his hands folded on his chest and his hat pulled over his eyes, Hawkeye shrugged. "Let 'em try. There's more important things to worry about in this crummy old war than if a guy lied about his marital status."

"Maybe, but Henry's not happy you lied to him. Frankly, I'm not happy you lied to me."

The blood in Hawkeye's veins stilled for a fraction of a second. Virginia had said something like that once. Now his best friend…

The door swung open and the self-righteous air of Frank Burns engulfed the tent. Hawkeye steeled himself for a tongue lashing. He pulled his hat lower and sank into the bed.

"Well, well. I never thought I'd live to see the day the brilliant Hawkeye Pierce met his downfall!" Frank clapped and rubbed his hands together. Hawkeye could just imagine the swagger with which he traipsed toward the cot, his face a picture of smug enjoyment.

"Hey, pipe down, Frank."

"I will not pipe down. This man has put me through humiliation after humiliation. It's about time he got his comeuppance."

Hawkeye pushed the hat away from his eyes and shot Frank a hateful look. "Watch it, Frank. I'm in no mood for your petty celebration."

"And I was in the mood for the time you stuffed my pillowcase with scrambled eggs? Or tied my underwear to the flagpole? I think not! This is what serves you right, mister. You can't get away with everything, you know?"

"Yeah, well, I'll sure as hell get away with dumping your body in some pit." Jumping from his cot, Hawkeye rushed forward, a blind rage clouding his already-distorted vision. He grabbed Frank by the lapels and pulled tight, relishing in the sight of Frank's surprised and reddened face. What he wouldn't give for five minutes and a meeting between his fist and Frank's face.

Trapper broke the assault of before Hawkeye could do any damage. He grabbed the back of Hawkeye's jacket and pulled him back. "Hey, knock it off! Take a hike, Frank."

"I sure will," Frank huffed. He adjusted his askew jacket and gave Hawkeye a disturbed once over. "Right to the C.O.'s office to file my official complaint."

"Don't let the door hit you on your way out!" Hawkeye called to Frank's retreating form. He shoved Trapper away when the door clattered shut. "I'm fine, I'm fine. No harm, no foul."

Seconds ticked by. Trapper held Hawkeye's stare, his silence loud and clear. Hawkeye looked away and felt his shoulders hunch more than usual.

"You know, I never meant to hurt her," came the only lame excuse Hawkeye could think of.

Trapper gave the slightest nod before he picked up his lab coat and jerked his head toward the door. "I've got a patient that needs tending."

"Sure."

Once alone again, Hawkeye poured himself another drink. In the morning, he would report to Henry and give a veiled explanation of his reasonings. Then he'd find Virginia and convince her to get the hell out of here. For the moment, however, he was going to wallow. Wallow in self-pity and in remembrance of what was and could never be again.


	4. Remembrance

**A/N: **The first of several remembrances of a past life. I'd love to hear your thoughts thus far!

* * *

_remembrance—one: _

_You and me against the world._

_Massachusetts General Hospital. Boston, MA, 1945. _

"Scalpel."

Virginia Hunter reached for the thin knife and placed it in Doctor Pierce's waiting palm. "Scalpel."

He made a small incision at the base of the patient's abdomen. "Retractor." Virginia grabbed the metal instrument with the curved end and waited for further instruction. "Put it here." He pointed to the top of the incision.

The retractor did its job and revealed the inside of the young boy's abdomen wall. Virginia fought the urge to rise on her tiptoes and peer inside. She never got tired of watching the surgeons work their miracles. For a moment, Dr. Pierce worked in silence, his gloved fingers deftly searching for the enlarged appendix. Lifting his fingers from the opening, his white gloves now stained red, he huffed. He fiddled with the retractor, pulling it further to open the incision more.

"Can I get you something, Doctor?" Virginia asked. She glanced at the beads of sweat perched across his brow.

"Suction," he said.

Though Virginia had observed Pierce around the hospital before, she'd never operated alongside him. Today's surgery was a simple appendectomy. The patient, a fifteen-year-old boy, would be in and out in no time. In theory, Pierce should be able to complete the procedure in an hour at the least. Yet, as a first-year resident and the only surgeon present in the operating room, Pierce radiated nerves. The sweat on his forehead, the slight tremor in his wrist, the consistent blinking of his eyes—Virginia had seen it all before. A year as a nurse at the largest teaching hospital in Boston had taught her more about a nurse's responsibilities—both to surgeon and patient—than college ever did.

In his short time as a resident, Pierce had already garnered a reputation as a playboy and a flirt. Some of her own friends had gone on dates with him and sung his praises over the next morning's cup of coffee. She thought back to the moments she'd seen him in the hallway or cafeteria. He seemed unbothered, amused by the stress of hospital work. He laughed, joked, played harmless pranks on his fellow residents. What was it that made him so confident in the break room but anxious at the operating table?

Virginia reached for the cool rag at her side. She reached across the table and moped his brow. "You're sweating up a storm." She kept her tone light, hoping the playful tease may ease his jitters. Her eyes remained fixed on his hand, watching, waiting, for the nervous shaking to cease.

"Only because I've got a gorgeous nurse standing across from me. She makes me all kinds of nervous." At once, the trembling in his hand stopped. He looked up long enough to toss her a wink before taking a scalpel and deepening the incision. He handed her the instrument and motioned for suction before shoving his two fingers into the incision. "You've got good hands, Nurse."

Virginia bit the inside of her cheek to keep from rolling her eyes. "You should be focused on your patient not the state of my appendages, Doctor."

The mask covering Pierce's mouth shifted as he smirked. "Trouble is, I can't keep your appendages off my mind." A moment passed, his brow furrowed in concentration now rather than nerves. The clock on the wall ticked to a steady beat and the oxygen machine hissed. Together, the calming noises threatened to lull Virginia to a state of contented blankness.

Without warning, his shoulders straightened and a gleam lit his eye. She startled. "By George, my dear, I think I've got it. Clamp."

"Clamp."

Pierce twisted a section of the patient's organs. "Ready the scissors." He secured the clamp over the twisted knot of flesh and intestine. "Scissors." Virginia handed over the small pair of surgical scissors and he set to work.

Forty-five minutes later, Pierce pushed open the operating room door and, with a sweep of his arm, motioned for Virginia to walk through. "After you, my lady."

"My goodness—one minute you're a Nervous Nelly, the next minute you're all wisecracks. If I didn't know any better, I'd recommend you for a brain evaluation."

Pulling off her scrubs and tossing them in a nearby bin, Virginia went to the sink. She peeled the latex gloves from her hands and twisted the knob, releasing a heavy flow of hot water. Pierce took the sink across from her, his shoulders hunched due to his height and lanky frame.

"Me, a Nervous Nelly?" He guffawed. "I am the epitome of cool, calm, and collected. Unless, of course, a beautiful nurse makes my heart go aflutter." He hovered his hand over his heart and wiggled his fingers.

Droplets of water flew toward Virginia's face. She shrieked, ducking, only to pop back up and fling her hand in his general direction. He grinned—and on some level, her heart knew that grin would be her undoing. Soaking his hand under the faucet, he held her stare. Virginia's pulse thumped in her ears.

She backed away from the sink. He followed suit, his clear eyes twinkling with mirth. "Oh, don't even think about it." She grabbed a hand towel and pulled it tight between her two fists. "My mother used to swat my backside like this."

"I'm suddenly jealous of your mother for being so intimate with your backside."

In an instant, he had her pinned against his chest, his wet hand dripping water along her forehead, cheeks, and neck. She couldn't help but laugh and subject herself to his game. Flinging water at one another in a silly attempt at flirtation was too childish to not be laughed at, too silly not to enjoy. For the first time in weeks, she felt carefree. Gone were her worries, her woes. Pierce and his antics, his bravado and unrelenting humor—she understood why all the girls wanted to be in line as his next date.

At the thought, she wrenched free of his hold and stepped away. She smoothed the wet strands of her hair down and cleared her throat. The mirror hanging on the wall revealed the scarlet blush painting her cheeks and the thin lines of black trickling from her eyelashes. She wiped her undereyes.

"Let me take you dinner." Pierce tossed his scrub cap to the side. She had a clear view of him in the reflection of the mirror. He stood a solid ten inches taller than her, his hands in his pockets, a lazy smile on his mouth.

"I don't think that'll work" was the only excuse she could think of in her haste to escape his confounding presence.

Pierce's eyebrow rose. "Why not?"

Virginia turned from the mirror and gathered her belongings from the cubby under the bench. "I have a lot on my plate right now. My father is ill and…" She trailed off, searching for some other reason, some other excuse to keep her love-parched self from giving in.

"And?"

She jumped from the bench and slung her bag over her shoulder. "And I just don't think it will work."

"Nurse Hunter—"

"Virginia," she supplied, though she regretted it the moment it came from her lips.

"Are you playing hard to get, Virginia?" His eyes narrowed in a playful manner. Her stupid heart skipped a beat.

At the doorway, she paused before saying in a voice masking the waver in her pulse, "I am hard to get, Doctor Pierce."


	5. Chapter 3

**A/N:**_ A medical-heavy chapter. If you're squeamish about childbirth, it's possible to skip and/or skim and not miss any integral story development._

* * *

_And through it all, I will remain_

_Victorious._

_MASH Unit 4077. October, 1950._

"Virginia, they need you in surgery right away."

Virginia closed her book—a worn copy of _Gone With the Wind_—and rubbed her weary eyes. Two fourteen hour days in a row. Two shifts of non-stop surgery, an endless supply of patients, and little to no moments of rest. Her feet ached, her eyes were sore, and her soul was weary from seeing boys who couldn't shave with wounds that wouldn't heal. The only positive was the distance those fourteen hour days put between Hawkeye and herself. Despite working in the same operating room, the number of casualties had barely left her time to drink water let alone worry over her husband and, for that, she was thankful. Keeping busy meant she didn't an opportunity to cry.

She dragged herself from the table, tucked her novel in an inside pocket on her jacket, and headed for the hospital. A steady rain wet the strands of hair which hung loose from her braid. The dirt beneath her feet squelched as the ground softened and turned to mud. She folded her arms against the droplets of water and hurried onward, thankful yet again for an excuse to keep her mind busy. The sky, she supposed, could do the crying for her.

She scrubbed up alongside Margaret Houlihan and a girl who couldn't be a day over eighteen named Jane. The threesome prepared in silence. In her few days at camp, Virginia had gotten the hint a female surgeon was not welcomed by Major Houlihan. However, Virginia was not paid to befriend all her fellow servicemen and women; she was paid to treat the wounded.

Once her hands and arms were raw from soap and hot water, Virginia donned her cap and gown and shouldered her way into the operating room. "All right, Skip, what do you have for me today?" She held out her arms for gloves, her attention focused on getting her fingers in the right places.

"About that…" Skip, a rail thin man with thick glasses, one of the anesthesiologists, grabbed Virginia's elbow and pulled her to the side. "I need you to deliver a baby."

Virginia almost laughed but when she looked between Skip's ashen face and the Korean woman doubled-over on an operating table, she knew this was no laughing matter. "Oh hell," she muttered. "I'm not sure I'm the best—"

"I assume you've delivered a baby before, Captain Pierce?" Margaret entered the room, Jane at her heels. "Or is that not considered important knowledge for female surgeons to know before they get their degree?" Her eyebrow rose in challenge, but Virginia wouldn't rise to the bait as much as she wanted to.

Instead, she settled for a short quip as she encouraged the laboring mother to lie on her back. She gritted her teeth to keep the ire out of her tone. "I'll have you know, Major Houlihan, much of my time as a nurse was spent in the labor and delivery room before I became a surgeon."

Margaret's nostrils flared as she breathed deep. "How convenient for you."

Virginia ignored the comment and placed a hand on the mother's shoulder. She opened her mouth to say something encouraging, but fell short. Her mouth ran dry, her mind numb as she stared into the deep, frightened eyes of the young woman. She wasn't ready for this. Not after—

The woman dug her nails into Virginia's palm. "_Dowajuseyo! Dowajuseyo!_"

"What's she saying?" Margaret assumed her spot on the opposite side of the table. She placed a damp cloth on the mother's sweating forehead. All traces of hostility fled from the room, replaced by concern and urgency.

"I don't know, but try to keep her from thrashing so much." Virginia propped the woman's knees and glanced under her skirts to ascertain her condition. She was in labor all right. Active labor, by the looks of it. The baby would be making a grand entrance any moment once the mother started pushing. Virginia turned to Skip. "Do you know this woman's name?"

Skip offered a pathetic shrug. "She showed up about ten minutes before Radar came to get you. We didn't get the chance to ask her many questions."

"Fine, we'll deal with the details later." Virginia looked to Margaret. "Can you tell her to push?"

"I can try."

"Jane, help her manage her breathing." Virginia pushed the woman's skirts over her knees and squeezed her swollen ankles. The mother stopped her frantic cries of fear long enough to hold Virginia's stare. "Women have been giving birth for centuries. You're about to join the oldest club in the books. So, breathe and push hard and this will all be over before Uncle Sam can send us home."

Margaret, her eyes soft over her mask, nodded once in solidarity. She grabbed the woman's hand and pressed it tight while ordering her to push. Despite the language barrier, instinct took hold and the woman bore down.

One…

two…

three…

four.

She let up, gasping for breath.

"Good! Again."

A harsh cry, like the sound of ripping paper, rent the air as the woman bore down once more. The muscles in her neck bulged and her eyes squeezed tight. Sweat soaked her skin, her clothing. When she released, her shoulders quivered. Jane propped a pillow behind her neck.

"Wonderful!" Virginia motioned for Margaret to continue. "You're doing great."

Outside, the siren went off, alerting the compound of incoming wounded. Virginia startled. She'd nearly forgotten where she was. In the hallway, she could hear a flurry of voices as nurses and doctors shuffled the most pressing patients into the operating room. Henry Blake, suited for surgery, elbowed his way to Virginia's side. He hesitated, his boyish face adjusting to the scene of a woman mid-contraction, before motioning to a back corner.

"You're gonna have to move this lady, Virginia. We've got a hell of a lot of boys comin' in and we can't lose the table to a woman giving birth," he said. He looked contrite as it he said, but his tone brooked no argument.

Though a protest rose to her lips, Virginia shoved it down. She nodded her approval. The faster the woman was moved, the faster labor could resume. Besides, Henry was right. By the look and sound of it, they would need every table they had.

After a moment of fruitless explanation, Henry scooped the woman into his arms and scurried to the back corner. He laid her on a wooden table draped with white linen before he rushed away, barking orders as he went. Margaret replaced the pillows behind the woman's shoulders and let her drink a few sips of water. Then she nodded to Virginia.

"We're ready."

Only Virginia wasn't. She stood at the foot of the table, her arms limp at her sides, eyes glued to Hawkeye as he brushed into the room. Confidence followed him in waves. He took his place at an operating table, and her heart tumbled in her chest. A memory—the first time she'd worked with him—rose to the surface. God… she hated him.

"Doctor Pierce!" Margaret's whispered rebuke saved Virginia the embarrassment of being caught starting at her unfaithful husband across the hospital room. She shook herself free of the memories and the fresh sting of rejection. Now was not the time for self-pity.

"I'm sorry." She sat on the stool at the end of the table and placed her hands on the woman's ankles. "I got… distracted."

Margaret blinked and a curious emotion—understanding perhaps—flickered through her gaze. "Are you ready?" Her voice was soft, sisterly. The sharp contrast to their earlier interaction made Virginia squirm.

"Yes—go ahead."

Several more rounds of contractions came and went with little complication. The hustle and bustle of the room increased the mother's urgency whether she realized it or not and encouraged her to push harder and longer. And though the sounds of men whisked in and out of surgery, doctors shouting for supplies, and the consistent plinking of shrapnel hitting metal buckets threatened to break Virginia's concentration, she held firm. She knew if she wavered, her eyes would trail to Hawkeye and she'd be done for. So, she kept her focus intent on the mother and her child.

All at once and without warning, it went to hell. A separation of skin and bone was all Virginia needed to see to know something was horribly wrong.

"Stop! Dear God, stop!" Virginia scrambled to her feet. The stool tipped over and crashed to the floor. "Margaret, tell her to stop!"

But Margaret didn't need to relay the message. The mother took in Virginia's alarm and she fell limp, the strain on her face replaced by worry. Tears flooded her eyes when another contraction hit, but she fought it hard, her teeth gritting so tight Virginia swore she could hear a tooth crack under the pressure.

"What is it?" Margaret breathed. "What's wrong?"

Virginia swallowed hard. Dozens of eyes bore holes into the back of her head, and a strange, anticipatory silence hushed the operation room. Her skin itched under the scrutiny. She forced herself to ignore the attention and focus on the job at hand.

"The baby's shoulder is stuck. If she keeps pushing, she'll bleed out. The baby could die."

"Damn." Margaret let go of the mother's hand and checked the mother's condition for herself. She turned her gaze to Virginia. "Do you know what to do?"

"Yes, I know what to do but I've never done it before."

"You've got to do it anyway." Margaret took hold of Virginia's arm and squeezed. "I'll be beside you the whole time."

The weight of the mother and child's future came to rest on Virginia's shoulders. The muscles in her back constricted. She closed her eyes in a vain attempt to will herself away, but wishing wouldn't get her anywhere. She knew what she had to do and she had no choice but to do it.

She straightened, shoving aside any apprehension crowding her mind. She had to be clearheaded if this was going to work. "Go get the Father or Radar. I don't care who, but get someone and get them fast," she told Jane.

The girl was back with Father Mulcahy before Virginia had time to change her gloves. The Father, suited and carrying his well-worn Bible, was not Virginia's first choice, but he would have to do. She pointed to the woman's left ankle.

"Hold that," she instructed. "Push it down toward the table."

Mulcahy set his Bible aside, gave Virginia a concerned look, but did as she bade. "What are you going to do?" he asked as he wrapped his fingers around the woman's ankle.

"Fix the problem."

As she changed into a fresh pair of gloves, Virginia instructed Margaret to hold down the woman's shoulders and Jane to hold down the woman's right ankle. Once all were situated, she drew in a deep breath through her mouth. Her eyes flicked to Mulcahy. She almost asked for prayer, but bit her tongue. She'd given up praying a long time ago. Instead, she turned to Margaret.

"This is going to hurt. I'll try to be as fast as I can, but keep her alert and awake. Once the baby is righted, she'll need to push again. She can't pass out. Do you understand, Margaret?"

Margaret nodded.

"Okay then. Ready?"

The trio visibly braced themselves.

Virginia didn't allow herself a moment's hesitation. She pushed her hand inside the birth canal and reached for the baby's jammed shoulder. The woman on the table screamed and writhed in pain. Blind to her progress, Virginia kept searching, kept poking and prodding. She ignored the mother's sounds of desperation. She had to if she wanted to succeed, even if it made her heart shatter and guilt flood her veins.

"Come on," she muttered.

"Virginia," Margaret warned, her hands caught on the mother's twitching shoulders.

"I'm trying!"

To her left, Mulcahy whispered hurried prayers for guidance and deliverance.

At last, her hand caught on the baby's shoulder. She pushed the baby back and forward, repositioning for an easier entrance. Slipping her hand free, she ordered the mother to bear down once more. Weary as she was, the mother followed orders. Within moments, the baby—a film-coated girl—came squalling into the world. Unbidden tears clouded Virginia's vision. She laughed as she held the girl up for her mother to see, gunk and all.

"Congratulations!" she said. "It's a girl."

Mulcahy, liquid shining in his warm gaze, translated. "_Soneyo_."

The mother grinned. Her head lolled to the side, exhaustion evident in the lines on her face. She raised her arms for the child. Virginia placed the baby at her mother's breast and stepped back.

"Good work, Doctor Pierce." Father Mulcahy patted Virginia's shoulder.

Virginia removed the gloves from her sweaty hands. She rubbed her wrist across her tear-stained cheeks and cleared her throat. The miracle of life. Even in the middle of a war, life persisted. A fresh round of tears rose to the surface and she turned away to hide her face. Hands on her hips, she bit her lower lip to keep from crying. She blinked hard and rose her face to the hazy yellow light from the ceiling. When the tears had gone, she looked across the operating room. Her survey stumbled over Hawkeye. He stood at his operating table, hands poised in the air above his patient. He held her eye and nodded once.

Virginia left the room, the baby's umbilical cord still uncut. She was done for the day.

* * *

_Dowajuseyo: Help me._


	6. Chapter 4

_I deserved a better goodbye._

_MASH Unit 4077. October, 1950._

By the time the shift in the hospital finished in the wee hours of the morning, a deluge of rain had opened over the compound. Four-inch-deep pockets of water littered the ground, the muddy road thick and bloated with moisture. The wooden frame of the mess tent shook with each violent gust of wind and water streamed from holes in the ceiling. Virginia huddled beneath her Army-issued poncho with a mug of tea cradled between her hands. _Gone with the Wind _lay in her lap, the worn spine cracked opened to her favorite part—the library scene at Twelve Oaks. Hopeful the hood of her poncho obscured her face, she kept to the dimly lit corner, her legs curled beneath her on the chair she'd swiped from the post-op ward.

A sigh worked its way to her mouth. She couldn't sleep. Try as she might, thoughts swirled around her head—conflicting, frustrated, desperate thoughts. It had been a mistake to volunteer for the war, she saw that now. Running away from her problems was impossible; she'd been foolish to think she could. The war was a distraction, but in the quiet of the night, after Margie had fallen asleep and the lights were turned out, Hawkeye's face still swam before her. Knowing he was on the other side of camp only made it worse.

Part of her wanted to run and cling to him like she had the day he left for Korea. He was her husband and she loved him. For all his faults, for all his bravado and sarcastic remarks, for all his unfaithfulness, she loved him. She had a sneaking feeling she always would.

The other half of her wanted nothing to do with him. She wanted to take her ring off and toss it in the nearest mine field. She wanted to scream from the nearest rooftop that Benjamin Franklin Pierce was a slimy, no good excuse for a husband.

Damn him! Damn him for promising her his heart only to give it to others on the sly.

She knew she couldn't trust him. Life in Boston after their whirlwind marriage had been rough. He felt stifled by their vows, and she knew he went to bars and nightclubs and flirted relentlessly with other women. She suspected he did more than flirt, too. On more than one occasion she'd caught the scent of another woman's perfume on in their car or lipstick stains on his shirt collar. But that had changed after they'd moved to rural Maine. The countryside, the solitude—it seemed to settle his restless and wandering eye. They'd been happy, deliriously so. He'd even confessed to her his escapades with other women in Boston. It had broken her heart, but the way he'd held her hand, looked into her eye, and promised she was the only one had made her stay.

He'd lied.

A tear rolled down Virginia's cheek and splashed on the page she'd tried in vain to read. The ink ran together, blurring the words _Scarlett said _to an indistinguishable blob. She shut the book. Her nails dug into the flesh of her palm in a half-hearted attempt to keep the tears at bay. It was no shame to cry, but she wouldn't let herself cry over a man who'd proven time and time again that she was nothing special to him. She deserved better.

Rising from her seat, Virginia tucked her book under her arm and returned her mug to the front table. More than anything, she needed a good night's rest. After arriving Korea and discovering Hawkeye and delivering a baby with shoulder dystocia, she could really use a restorative sleep.

"I thought I might find you here." At the sound of Hawkeye's voice, Virginia knew she wouldn't be able to sleep even if she managed to get to her tent without speaking to him. "You were always one to read when you couldn't get to bed. Me? I prefer a good drink. Calms the nerves."

Steeling herself, Virginia turned slow on her heel. She met Hawkeye's gaze with a pointed one of her own. She wouldn't let herself be swayed by him, be tempted by the sight of him before her with his hands in his pockets, a toothpick in his mouth, hair askew and graying at the temples. God, even now, despite it all, he made her knees weak.

"You did good today," he said. He took the toothpick from between his lips and dropped to the nearest bench. "You should be proud of yourself."

"I am."

Hawkeye all but snorted as he shook his head in amusement. "I see you haven't lost your confidence either." He sobered, then, and gestured for her to sit. "We need to talk."

Virginia slid onto the corner of the bench opposite Hawkeye. She folded her arms against her chest. "I'm sure you have a speech worked up, so out with it. I would like to get some sleep before my next shift."

Hawkeye's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. His lips pulled tight, and, for a moment, Virginia thought he may get up and leave. But he remained seated. When he spoke, his voice stayed as calm as ever. However, the twitch at the corner of his left eye told her he fought to hold his frustration back.

"What are you doing here, Virginia?"

Shock flooded Virginia's system. She scoffed. "That's it? That's what you have to talk to me about? After I catch you yet again with another woman, you want to ask me why I'm in Korea?"

He shifted, his shoulders rising in defense. Bewilderment flashed in his blue eyes. "There's a goddamn war on! You aren't supposed to be here. It's not safe."

"I'm here _because _there's a goddamn war on, Ben!" She paused and forced some of the ire out of her tone. "I want to help. That's what doctors do—we help."

"By why are you here?" His pointer finger pressed hard on the tabletop, his skin of fingertip gone white. "In the four-oh-seven-seven?"

"By a cruel twist of fate, I promise. I didn't follow you, if that's what you're asking. I'm not that stupid."

"I didn't say you were."

She ignored his mumbled comment. "You think I'm here to spy on you? To keep tabs? Ben, I got one letter from you at training. After that, all my information about whether or not you were alive or dead came from your father. I stopped waiting a long time ago."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have written. I should have been better."

"But you didn't write and you didn't try to be better." She hesitated. A question she'd longed to ask him bubbled to her lips before she could stop it. "Why did you ask me to marry you, Ben? I mean, really. I found out about the other women hardly a year into our marriage. So, tell me, truly—why did you marry me?"

Seconds passed. Hawkeye held Virginia's stare, unwavering.

Finally, he spoke. "I asked you to marry me because I loved you. Plain and simple."

"Loved?" Virginia's nostrils flared as tears stung her eyes. "You said loved."

The unspoken question hung in the heavy silence. Virginia was prepared to leave the tent without an answer when Hawkeye's eyes rose from the table. Sadness swam there, raw and deep. Virginia's breath hitched with a muffled sob. She prepared herself for the ultimate dismissal.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered. "Time and distance… the things I've done to hurt you…" He offered a pitiful shrug, as if it dulled the pain of his rejection. In a way, his words, as guarded and noncommittal as they were, gave her all the answer she needed. Whatever they'd had, whatever had filled her with such hope for the future, was gone.

She could hold the tears back no longer. They flowed down her face and tasted of salt and regret. With trembling legs, she stood. The bench squeaked as it pushed against the floor. Her fingers worked to pry the ring off her left hand, but it jammed against her knuckle in her haste. Hawkeye rose and put out a hand to stop her.

"Don't do that. Please," he said. She could hear the strain in his voice, but ignored it and continued to work the stubborn piece of jewelry.

"Take it," she said when at last it was off her finger. She put it on the table in front of him. She couldn't—no, she wouldn't touch him. A sob mangled what was left of her voice. "Just take it, Hawkeye."

He picked up the gold band, ran his nail along the edge. "That's it then?"

Virginia scrubbed the tear tracks from her cheeks. She sucked in a deep breath and straightened her spine. "I suppose it is. I'm not going anywhere, so you'd better get used to me. I came to help and I intend to do so. Can you live with that?"

"Can you work alongside me?" The pain in his voice caught her off guard. She almost faltered, wondered if he regretted what he'd done and what he'd lost, but she knew better. Hawkeye was a flirt first, a doctor second, a husband third.

"No," she said. "No, I don't think I can. But I'm a professional. We'll be colleagues and that's all."

"You have to be kidding me, Virginia! Do you hear yourself?" Hawkeye tossed his hands in the air in a sudden fit of exasperation. "I am your husband; you are my wife! I know everything about you and you expect me to treat you like a colleague?!"

"You lost the right to call me your wife the moment you put your hand on someone else!"

Her chest heaved from the force of her outburst, her eyes shooting daggers through Hawkeye's forehead. He towered over her, his hands on his hips, his breathing as labored at hers. She stepped back. He knew she was right.

"Fine then." He pushed her wedding band in his pocket. "Have it your way. Colleagues—nothing more."

There was nothing more to say. She had no more fight left in her. There had once been a time she would stay up the whole night, fight with him until the sun peeked over the Maine mountains, make love to him until the afternoon, just to keep their marriage together. There had once been a time she would fight harder for what she loved most. Hawkeye—though she loved him dearly—had made his choice. Who was she to fight it?

Virginia glanced over her shoulder. Outside the wind howled, tossing around rain like bullets. She shivered and pulled her jacket tighter. There was nothing more to say.

"Goodnight, Hawkeye," she said.

"Goodnight, Doctor Pierce." He emphasized her last name, _their _last name, and she ruffled.

As she made her way to her tent, rain mingling with the tears on her cheeks, she told herself over and over this was for the best. Like he said himself, she deserved better. Yet love, the stubborn thing, refused to let her forget him. When she finally lay in bed, the edges of sleep creeping into her weary mind, she couldn't help but chuckle at the irony of it all. She would always love her husband no matter how hard she tried to break free.


	7. Chapter 5

_In the dark of the night, I'll keep your secrets._

_MASH Unit 4077. December, 1950._

The weeks came and went in much the same fashion as Virginia's first week in Korea. Wounded traveled through the hospital on a conveyor belt with every doctor, nurse, and enlisted man struggling to keep up with demand. She had seen enough blood, guts, and leftover artillery jammed inside bodies to make up her entire career. On the rare day of rest, men and women filtered around camp in search of distraction from the boredom and homesickness at their heels. More than once Virginia had stumbled upon lovers in a heated encounter in the back of the supply tent. She didn't blame them. The bitter cold seeping through her clothes, the endless days, and no promise of relief nearly had her going stir-crazy. What she wouldn't give for a gentle caress or warm embrace just to take the sharp edges off her mood… But Hawkeye was not an option and, unlike him, she would not turn to someone else for comfort.

They had fallen into their work relationship of old—before she'd known him well, before he'd asked her to dinner and she'd finally accepted, before their wedding, before the evening it all fell apart. She treated him with respect, assisted his surgeries when he asked, gave him advice when he needed it. But once her scrubs were in the hamper and her hands washed, she did her best to forget him. That was easier said than done.

For his part, he left her alone, though he'd taken it upon himself to place a mug of coffee at her breakfast spot every morning with little more than a hello. She suspected it was his way of searching for atonement; she wouldn't stop him if it made him feel better. She noted, too, that he wore her wedding ring on a thin chain around his neck. He kept it hidden beneath his shirt, but it had fallen over his collar post-surgery one afternoon and jingled alongside his dog-tags. The harsh fluorescent light had glinted off the gold band and reflected in a mirror on the wall. Virginia had left before her tongue betrayed her and asked why he kept it close. If she asked, she knew hope would flare in her heart, and hope had betrayed her more times than she cared to count when it came to her husband.

The first snowfall came earlier than anyone anticipated. Two weeks before Christmas, a cold front swept through the camp, chilling whatever heat was left inside a body or tent alike. The forecasted rain turned to snowflakes and settled on the frozen ground. Virginia found herself huddled alongside Radar O'Reilly and Margie that wintry afternoon. With their hands practically shoved inside the barrel heater in the middle of the mess tent, they traded stories of hotter climates in a sorry attempt to find warmth.

"When I was a child, my father took us to Arizona on one of his summer business trips," Virginia said. Puffs of white breath hung in the air after each word. "I remember thinking it was so hot my skin would melt off. Sounds delightful now."

Radar tugged the blanket wrapped around his head tighter. His glasses fogged with frost and his teeth chattered together like rocks in a rockslide. "I wonder if Hell is really as hot as they say it is…"

"Radar!" Virginia slapped his shoulder before tossing Margie a conspiratorial wink. "You can't say a thing like that when you look like the Virgin Mary! It's sacrilegious."

With a pout and a sneer, Radar pushed the blanket away from his head. He folded his arms tight over his chest. "You're just like Captain Pierce," he mumbled. "Always pokin' fun at poor old Radar. Now I see why he married you."

From her place facing the door, Margie sat straight. "Oh boy, here comes trouble." Her eyes slid to Virginia in an apologetic glance.

Virginia looked over her shoulder, though she knew what trouble meant without having to catch a glimpse—Hawkeye and Trapper. Sure enough, the pair of doctors, bundled in their winter coats, scurried across the compound toward the mess tent. Henry Blake followed close behind, a massive black case held against his torso. Trapper entered the mess hall first, shaking the wintry flakes from his sandy curls. He huffed air into his cupped hands before dropping to a bench on the other side of the mess.

"What's going on, sir?" Radar asked, rising from his spot.

"Movie night." Henry shuffled in behind Hawkeye. Cheeks tinged with a red flush, he set about constructing the movie equipment. "It's so damn cold out there I thought we might watch something to put us in a warmer state of mind. Why don't you go inform the troops, Radar? Tell everybody to bring all the blankets they can. I'm about to freeze my who-ha off!"

Radar left on a salute, dodging past Father Mulcahy on his way out.

The Father lifted a film canister as he entered. "There was no Treasure of the Sierra Madre, but I did find The Desert Song."

"Anything with desert in the title is good enough for me. Give it here," Henry said, his fingers wiggling for the canister, eyes wide with desperation. "Any idea what it's about?"

A thoughtful look crossed Mulcahy's face. "I believe it's a musical involving Nazis and a type of railroad. At least, that's what the canister description said. However, I have become wary of those descriptions…" Mulcahy tugged at his collar, clearing his throat.

From his place lounging on the sideline, Hawkeye piped up. "Yes, Father. We all remember the Great August Mix-up."

"Fondly, too!" With a wink, Trapper elbowed Hawkeye at the expense of Henry and Mulcahy's complexion. Both men turned blood red. Henry's fingers worked faster to thread the film in the camera while Mulcahy busied himself rearranging the benches.

"There's no need to remind us of that, Pierce." Henry's eyes flicked to Virginia and Margie. "Not when there are ladies present."

Virginia waited for the inevitable wisecrack she could see poised on the tip of Hawkeye's tongue. But when their eyes met, his mouth went tight and he looked away. She returned her gaze to the fire.

After a moment's silence where the only sound was the camera whirring and benches scraping against the floor, Virginia nudged Margie. "I'm not sure I want to know," she whispered, "but what was the mix-up?"

Margie groaned. "The films got switched. One of Henry's dirty films played instead of Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein."

Virginia laughed, clutching her hand to her chest. "That's quite the difference! And would I be wrong in guessing the mix-up was not an accident?"

"With those two," Margie said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder, "I doubt anything around here happens on accident."

The rest of the camp began to file into the mess, blankets and pillows and coats overflowing from their arms. Virginia rose to assist, thankful for the chatter which filled the crowded air between herself and the male officers. Despite their respect for her medical knowledge, her last encounters with Henry and Trapper had felt stilted and forced. Her marriage, as was often the case, must be to blame. She resolved not to let it bother her—though the list of things which shouldn't bother her was beginning to bother her itself. With a shake of the head, she tore herself from the bottomless rut of self-pity and frustration her mind had become as of late. This evening, she would force herself to relax.

"Alice, let me help you with that." She took one of the quilts in Alice's load and laid it on the floor alongside Margaret and Ginger. Over her shoulder, she could feel Hawkeye's eyes on her as she crouched to fluff the pillows and blankets piled in a heap. Irritation gnawed at her stomach. The man couldn't make up his damn mind! Her hands fisted the blankets as she fought to keep her temper at a simmer. Stubborn, foolish, vexing—

"Virginia"—Ginger broke into her internal tirade.— "sit here."

With a small smile, Virginia planted herself between Margie and Ginger. She tugged the quilt to her chin, relishing in the first wave of warmth her entire body had felt in days. She could practically feel her toes beginning to thaw.

"All right, gang. Listen up!" Henry stood before the camera, bathed in a hazy white light. He waited for the murmurs to settle before continuing. "Before we start the film, I want to remind everyone that we're double, triple, and quadruple bunking tonight. I heard tell it could get in the negatives tonight, so bundle up and find a buddy."

"Found mine!" Trapper lifted Hawkeye's limp arm for all to see. The nurses around Virginia giggled. When Trapper turned around and said, "Hands off—you missed your chance," she burrowed further under her quilt.

The movie started with a flicker of light and a pop of sound. Mulcahy hadn't been lying about the plot: men in suits and more men in traditional Arabian dress fought one another through song and dance over the future of a railroad. Virginia nodded off within the first ten minutes, worn to the bone by her emotions and relentless work schedule. If Dana Andrews or Jimmy Stewart wasn't on screen, she didn't care. And since neither actor had a part in the film, she had no qualms about sleeping her way through. When she woke hours later, the mess was near deserted. The camera light still glowed on the projector screen and forgotten pillows littered the ground. Ginger lay by her side, spooned by Spearchucker. Klinger lay flat on his back nearest the heater. Balloons of white frost curled in the air as he exhaled through his mouth. Sharing a quilt with him was Father Mulcahy, a wool knit cap pulled low over his brow. Virginia sat up and rubbed her eyes.

Outside the moon revealed the snow slowly building its way heavenward. Virginia stood, afghan snug around her shoulders, and stared at the blanket of white. It glistened in the moonlight. For a brief moment, quiet reigned in the camp. Since childhood, she'd always loved the sight of untouched snow. Snow had a way of bring the world to a halt, and in her war-torn world, she would take whatever moment of stillness she could find.

A shuddering sigh betrayed her composed façade. Two months since her arrival in Korea, two months since she'd given Hawkeye her ring, effectively ending their union. She glanced down. The ring's imprint she'd grown so used to over the years had faded. A lump caught in her throat. She missed him every day, loathe as she was to admit it.

A gust of wind tore through the afghan, and Virginia shivered. Her eyes darted to the tent across the path. The Swamp. She nibbled her lower lip. Considered. Reconsidered. Considered again.

Mind made, she pulled the afghan over her hair and sloshed her way through the snow to The Swamp. The door creaked as she pulled it open. From his spot on the floor, Radar moaned and Virginia froze in the doorway. He turned over, a teddy bear under his arm, and stilled. She counted to five before continuing her entry. Once the door was closed, she worked her feet out of her wet boots and left them by the pile at the door. Her socks padded on the worn floorboards as she made her way to Hawkeye's cot. He lay curled on his side, blanket pulled to his ears, a medical cap his head's only protection from the cold. Virginia's hand trembled as she pushed back the blanket and nudged him over.

"What—what is it?" His groggy voice spurred her onward. How she'd missed that sleepy tone. "Beth?"

"Hush," she whispered as she settled in beside him, tossing the afghan haphazardly over their bodies. "You'll wake the others." She kept her back to his chest, afraid if she faced him she would lose all control.

Hawkeye kept stock still. She could feel the rigidness of his muscles even as she worked to relax herself. How long had it been since they slept side by side? If she included his stint in training, she would hazard a guess at nine or ten months. Her body had forgotten what it felt like to be so close to another person, so close to him. Finally, she could stand his aversion no longer.

"Hawkeye, I'm cold," she breathed. Her fingers found his hand, squeezed it. "I'm just cold."

It seemed that was all the convincing he needed. His body went slack, and they found the familiar embrace of days gone by. He circled his arm around her waist, drawing her ever closer, and flung his opposite arm over their heads. The fingers of his free hand sifted through the hair escaped from her braid at the crown of her head. Her foot worked its way between his ankles until she could no longer tell their legs apart. Almost in unison, they sighed.

And fell asleep without another word.

.::.

A boot landing on the wooden floor jolted Virginia from her dreams. Her eyes snapped open, the breath in her lungs gone still. Behind her, Hawkeye lay motionless, undisturbed by life resuming around camp. His chest rose and fell in the smooth rhythm of sleep. Her eyes fluttered shut for the briefest of seconds as she reveled in the feel of him against her. He felt like home, comfortable and familiar. Another boot on the ground forced her to break free of her memories.

Good gracious, what time was it? She'd meant to slip out of the tent long before anyone else woke. But Frank, Radar, and Henry were nowhere to be seen. Across the tent, Trapper sat on the edge of his cot. He tied the laces of his boots with sharp, jerking motions.

"Sleep well?" he asked, his voice a hard whisper. His eyes never rose from his task.

Virginia tumbled off the cot and shoved her feet in her boots. With deft fingers, she undid her braid, shaking loose the tangles in her hair, before stealing a look at herself in the mirror on the post. She looked guilty, felt guilty. Trapper at her heels and the embarrassment working its way through every layer of her skin kept her from stealing a final glance at Hawkeye as she left the tent.

The fresh snow crunched beneath her feet, and a bright, cloudless sky pierced her eyes. She winced and raised a hand to shield her gaze from the glare. Though the storm of the previous evening was no more, the cold remained. She pulled her jacket tighter as she headed toward her tent. Trapper, uninvited, followed.

"You know," he began, his breathing winded as he pushed through the snow after her. "I'm not sure what to make of you, Virginia. You put Hawkeye off, tell him to get lost, then crawl into his bed in the middle of the night. Doesn't make sense to me. I'm sure as hell is doesn't make sense to him, either."

Virginia stopped walking. Her jaw clamped tight as she stared into Trapper's questioning eyes. "How's it any of your business?"

"Hawk's my best friend. We watch out for one another." He shrugged then added, "I just think the grapevine would find it a mighty interestin' story, that's all."

"I'm sure it would," she clipped in response.

Trapper's stare hardened. He stepped closer, his pointer finger accusatory under her nose. "He hasn't so much as looked at another woman since you showed up, you know that? No, I don't think you would. You're too busy making both of your lives miserable by showing him the door."

"Virginia, I'd like to speak with you, if I may." Margaret, appearing as if from thin air, touched Virginia's elbow and nodded her head toward the pre-op. She glanced between Virginia and Trapper, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I'll be right there." Once Margaret disappeared into the pre-op, Virginia returned her focus to Trapper. Her nostrils flared and she set her stance hard against the ground. "I'm sure if your wife knew about all your extra-marital activities she would show you the door as well, Captain."

Trapper did nothing to mask the anger which poured over his handsome features. "Hey—my marriage is private."

"So is mine."

Virginia turned on her heel before he could respond. Once in the pre-op, she found Margaret flipping through a clipboard of papers. She looked up as Virginia stamped the snow from her boots. Though the question was written all over her face, Margaret said nothing about the less than cheery interaction with Trapper. Instead, she shoved the clipboard in Virginia's direction.

"We have a problem on our hands, Captain," she said.

"Oh?" Virginia scanned the documents. The overly-political, highly-superfluous material blurred before her eyes. "How so?"

"There seems to have been a mix-up—"

Virginia shuffled the papers to the roster of nurses and corpsman at the bottom of the pile. "Like the one with Henry's films?" she asked, her brow furrowed in thought as she attempted to understand the memorandum.

"No, certainly not!" Margaret huffed. "That mix-up was due to the nasty, perverted mind of your husband and his best friend. Those two sat there laughing the entire time while the rest of us were horrified. Poor Father Mulcahy barely kept himself together."

Virginia's eyes flicked up at Margaret's accusation. She met the nurse's stony gaze with one of her own. A rosy flush colored the other woman's cheeks as the silence between them lengthened.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "That was uncalled for."

Virginia returned the clipboard to Margaret. "I just—Sometimes I still feel—" She swallowed hard, shook her head. "Hawkeye's actions are his own. He should have to answer to them. But you didn't ask me here to talk about him. Tell me about the mix-up."

"A squadron of special forces has been temporarily assigned to our unit."

"I don't understand. Are they army medics? Doctors with special powers?"

"Nothing of the sort." Margaret pointed to a section of text with a lacquered fingernail. "This explains they are 'military elite with special training for…" She squinted as she read the words. "Espionage and otherwise.' However, a misfile in the home office has assigned them here instead of at the front or wherever their duties would take them."

"Okay then what's stopping them from being reassigned? Why is there a problem?"

"General Braxis—the team's commanding officer—believes it would be suspicious if the team were moved all of sudden. The team's mission is so secretive he believes people within the Army would work to stop them should they come across the paperwork."

Virginia rubbed her forehead. A dull ache grated against her skull. "You're telling me a group of soldiers are coming to our camp for an undetermined amount of time because some general thinks his boys in green are so special his own army would sabotage them?"

Margaret put her hands on her hips. "Well, when you put it like that, it sounds asinine."

"It is asinine, Margaret. We don't have the room. We barely have the room for our own wounded. What are we supposed to do with them?"

"That's why I came to you." Margaret shoved the clipboard back in Virginia's hands. "Coronel Blake wants you and I to reassign the nurse bunks. The team has ten members so we need to move about eight or so nurses in order to make room."

"When are they coming?"

"By the first of the year."

Two weeks. Virginia flipped once more through the papers. She scanned the nurse roster in a new light, her mind working to formulate the best solution to an idiotic, unnecessary problem. With the beginnings of an idea of who could be moved and where, Virginia tucked the clipboard under her arm.

"I'll get to work on it."

"Thank you, Captain." Margaret headed for the door before turning to say, "Really, I am sorry about you and Hawkeye. It's a shame when there's another person between you and the one you love."

Unbidden tears pricked the corners of Virginia's eyes. She wondered if the entire unit had their own opinions on her marriage. What did Mulcahy think? Or Klinger? Or even Frank? Her wounds, her shame, were open for all to probe, it seemed. Yet Margaret's words held truth. The night spent in Hawkeye's arms only reinforced how much a shame their failed marriage was, how much they both had lost.

"I'll get to work on those reassignments," she said again, putting an end to Margaret's pity and her own wishful thinking.

She was tired of pining after yesterday, after the memories and the feelings and what had been. Like she'd told Margaret, Hawkeye had made his bed. It was only natural for him to lie in it. None of her hopes could change that. It was time for her to move on.

A glimmer of excitement, of anticipation, lit in Virginia's chest. Perhaps this mix-up wasn't all bad. Perhaps the squadron would be a welcome distraction to her mournful state of mind… Time would only tell.

* * *

**A/N: **_I just wanted to thank everyone for your continued support on this story. This has been such therapy for me, so I'm thankful for the kind responses to something that helps keep me sane. Up until now the plot has been rather slow to build a foundation, but it's about to pick up—yay! Please let me know your thoughts/reactions!_


	8. Remembrance 2

_remembrance—two:_

_I still fall for you every day._

_Crabapple Cove, Maine. 1946._

"I've been counting, you know…"

"Oh? Counting what?"

Rising to her knees on the bed, Virginia wrapped the white sheet around her naked body. Hawkeye rolled his eyes from his place against the headboard, the remainder of the sheet pooled in his lap. He took a bite of his sandwich before offering it to her. She shook her head.

"I've been counting how many days I've known you," she continued.

Mouth full of ham and cheese, Hawkeye laughed. Crumbs littered the bedsheets as he leaned forward to press a solid kiss to her lips. When he pulled back, he asked, still laughing, "How many days?"

"Three hundred and sixty-five." A wide grin captured Virginia's mouth. "I met you exactly a year ago today."

"And here we are." He set his food aside, motioning for her to fold herself against his side. She did so without hesitation. They fit together like the pieces of a well-made puzzle. "Man and wife, doctor and nurse—"

She held up a finger. "Ah—soon-to-be doctor."

"Forgive me," he said. "Man and wife, doctor and doctor, full of post-coital bliss and one damn good sandwich. Who'd have guessed?"

"A year ago you thought you'd be a lifelong bachelor."

Hawkeye snorted. "More like I hoped." At Virginia's swat, he held up his hands in surrender, laughing again. Their lives were filled with laughter; she hoped it would never change.

At once he sobered. He twisted, catching her face between the palms of his hands, and kissed her. Her heart tumbled in her chest. Would she ever tire of his touch, his kiss, his presence? She doubted it. He was like a drug, intoxicating, addicting, powerful.

Pressing his forehead to hers, he whispered, "You've got me all kinds of sappy. It's not becoming of a man in my position."

Virginia dissolved into laughter, falling to her back, hands clutched to her chest, tears of joy in her eyes. Hawkeye loomed over her, his hands on either side of her head, a delightfully crooked smile on his face.

"What is so funny?!"

"A man in your position! What position? You're the only doctor for a town of eight-hundred people. Last week you helped deliver a calf!" Virginia rolled to her side, giggling. "Oh goodness, my stomach hurts."

"Hey," he said, pinching her hip. "I have a reputation to maintain!"

"Oh yes, I'm sure you do, dear. We wouldn't want the other doctors the next town over knowing how much of a sap you truly are." Virginia clasped his arms as her laughter subsided, out of breath but happy. "Happy anniversary," she said.

"Our wedding anniversary isn't for another three months."

She shrugged. "I know, but today is the anniversary of the day my life changed. I didn't know it yet, but you would change my life. So… happy anniversary."

In lieu of a response, Hawkeye lowered to his forearms, his body pressing against hers. His fingers brushed against the hair falling across her face. The love in his eyes stole her breath. He was never one for overly romantic speeches; his eyes, his touch, did the talking. As his mouth hovered over hers, he whispered, "God, I love you."

Glowing, Virginia wrapped her arms around his neck and surrendered.


	9. Chapter 6

_And then came the feeling she thought she'd forgotten._

_MASH Unit 4077. January, 1951._

_"__Attention: all relocated nurses should be cleared of their tents in preparation for the Special Forces' arrival at thirteen-hundred hours today. Any questions or concerns should be taken to Major Houlihan or Captain Virginia Pierce."_

The PA system crackled as it went silent. Virginia tugged the scarf off from around her neck and surveyed her new arrangement. Cramped, stifled, and uncomfortable came to mind. It would have to do.

On the other side of the crowded space, her new tent-mate turned away from the mirror. "Are you excited to meet the Special Forces, Captain?" Margaret asked, spritzing herself with a fruity perfume.

Virginia's eyebrow lifted as she adjusted the quilt on her cot. "I don't have the patience for men anymore—no matter how special they are."

"You just haven't met the right man yet." Margaret flipped her blonde waves out from beneath her jacket collar. "Who knows? He could be on his way here right now."

Virginia said nothing as she slipped on and relaced her boots. How could she explain to Margaret she'd already met the right man? That she knew who her heart belonged to? How could she explain that, despite her love for him, she kept trying to forget him on the account of knowing she deserved better? She decided she couldn't. She could barely explain her own feelings to herself these days. It was best she kept quiet and didn't think on it. She was happier that way.

And besides, until she decided what to do, she was still legally bound to Hawkeye. No matter the habits of the others, she would remain faithful until a judge rescinded their marriage certificate. If, of course, it came to divorce. Some part of her still held out hope, as foolish as she knew such hope was.

Rising from her bed, she motioned to the door. "We'll be late for the meeting," she said.

"Hold on—just one more moment." Margaret checked her teeth and flounced the sides of her hair again. Virginia wondered what Frank would think of Margaret's concentrated preparation. He'd be jealous, no doubt. Would Hawkeye be jealous if he knew Virginia might have spent a good deal of the afternoon preparing for the arrival?

Once Margaret deemed herself ready, the pair started off for Henry Blake's office. Their commanding officer, nervous Nellie as he was, wanted to be sure all officers were well-informed and well-prepared for the incoming troops. In her two and a half months at the 4077, Virginia suspected the meeting would be a bust and something would go horribly wrong before the end of the day. Such was the track record, and most of the problems stemmed from her husband and his sidekick or the complete buffoonery of Major Burns. Today, her bet was on Hawkeye and Trapper.

Inside Henry's office, Virginia took her customary spot beside Father Mulcahy against the wall. She ignored Hawkeye and the way he lounged in his bathrobe across from Henry's desk. Trapper sat beside him, that idiotic straw hat plastered to his head. She glanced down at herself—the worn black boots, dirt-stained green khakis, and black turtleneck sweater. What did it matter if Hawkeye wore his bathrobe to a meeting? War was war whether one was dressed for the fight or not.

"Okay, kids, can I have your attention?" Henry entered the room with Radar close behind, a manila folder in hand. He dropped to the chair behind his desk; it squeaked but held firm. When Hawkeye and Trapper continued to talk amongst themselves and Margaret and Frank hid winks and secret smiles behind their hands, Radar whistled sharp. The room fell quiet. "Thank you, Radar."

Hands behind his back, Radar beamed. "You're welcome, sir."

"As you all know some Special Forces guys are coming in this afternoon for the next few months," Henry began. "I don't have a whole lot of information on them 'cause the Army is so hush-hush about 'em, but what I do know is they are highly trained and highly dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Trapper scoffed. "What do you mean dangerous?"

"I mean, they are trained to kill, McIntyre."

Hawkeye all but rolled his eyes. "So are all the seventeen-year-old kids we stitch up day after day. What could be so special about these Special Forces that all this needs to be so secretive?"

"Yeah, secretive and make the nurses move further away from us?" Virginia braced herself for Trapper's look of disapproval, but he, thankfully, leveled it at Margaret.

Frank cut in before Henry could respond. "These are extraordinary men of the service. If you two nincompoops knew anything about anything, you'd understand that having these Special Forces here is one of the highest honors. You should be grateful."

"I'd be more grateful if you went up a creek without a paddle and forgot how to swim." Hawkeye lifted a hand in Virginia's direction. The air in her chest stilled before she realized he was addressing the priest. "Sorry, Father."

Mulcahy shifted uncomfortably. "That's quite all right, my son," he mumbled.

"Okay, pipe down, you lot. I can only tell you what I know." Henry spread open the manila folder. He flipped through the first few pages, eyes scanning, before he found what he was looking for. "According to this, 'The Special Forces unit is made up of ten soldiers trained in the arts of espionage and government-sanctioned assassination. Their mission is classified and MASH unit members should be wary of unnecessary contact.'"

Trapper had the decency to give a low whistle in response to the situation's gravity. Hawkeye rustled in his seat, his feet dropping from the edge of Henry's desk.

"Look," Henry continued. "I don't want you all to not be nice to the fellows. There's nothing in here that says we can't be nice—"

"We just can't befriend them."

"Pierce, I'm just reading from the paper. I know as much as you do. But it's clear these are some dangerous guys, and we need to remember that. As long as they're here, the four-oh-seven-seven is in danger of any number of random attacks."

Margaret leaned forward. "From who, Coronel?"

"Everybody, as far as the Army is concerned."

"But we're a hospital, Henry." Even as Hawkeye spoke, Virginia could hear the defeat in his voice. There was no point in arguing the obvious—not when nothing could be done. Until further notice, the target in the center of the 4077's back would be doubled in size. They would simply have to do as they always did: mottle through.

"My biggest piece of advice is to be friendly when you can but continue like the Special Forces aren't here. Virginia, can you spread that through the nurses? I mean it, too. Even if these guys make a pass or somethin'. We all need to be on our guard."

Startled from her drifting mind, Virginia pushed herself to attention. "Yes, sir."

"Hopefully, the big guns will get this all figured out soon." Henry slapped the manila folder shut. "Then we can go back to normal."

Radar tilted his head toward the window. "The bus is here."

"And not a minute late." Frank jumped from his chair, grabbing Margaret's arm in the process. Mouth spread wide with excitement, Margaret stumbled to her feet. "That's what I call military efficiency—nothing like the way this slipshod place is run. No offense, Coronel."

"Offense taken, Frank."

Henry and Radar left the office first to welcome the soldiers, Frank and Margaret on their tails. Virginia hesitated, lost in thought. A hand came to rest on her shoulder. She turned, expecting to see the gentle eyes of Father Mulcahy, but Hawkeye stood there instead, his touch warm. Her thoughts flickered back to the night in December, wrapped in his arms, safe. They'd never spoken of it.

"You okay, slugger?"

Her chest constricted at the endearment. She twisted so the hand on her shoulder fell away. Behind him, Trapper stood methodically unwrapping a sucker, his eyes downcast, though she swore she could see his ears strain toward them.

"Yeah," she said, her voice hurried. "I just hope nobody gets hurt 'cause of this."

He said nothing, just nodded, and started toward the door. He held it open for her as she passed into the afternoon sun. The sting of winter settled fast, and she rubbed her arms, wishing she'd thought to wear her coat. Hawkeye stood behind her, his presence overbearing. Virginia fought to remain focused.

The Special Forces had disembarked from their bus and unloaded their few belongings on the snow-covered ground. Standing in a cluster, the soldiers eyed the compound with interest. Radar passed out an envelope with bunking assignments and general information to each man. To the side of the bus, Henry stood with his hand caught between the beefy fingers of a squat general. The general's brass and Henry's fishing lures glinted in the sunlight as they whispered together.

"Well, I guess now is as good a time as any to be nice."

Trapper pulled the sucker from his mouth and brushed past Virginia. Hawkeye trailed behind, his hands in his pockets, unaffected. Lip caught between her teeth, Virginia followed her husband and, without thinking, placed herself beside him. She almost sighed. Old habits were hard to break.

The Special Forces soldiers all stood above six feet tall, dressed from head to toe in black, their muscles well-defined in their form fitting uniforms. Virginia wanted to laugh, but held it in. They looked like spies out of a comic book. Of course, one kick from their steel-toed boots would send her flying, but their get-up was almost laughable all the same.

Hawkeye extend his hand to the nearest soldier, a man with close-cropped black hair and crooked nose. "Welcome to hell, boys," he said. "We here at the four-oh-double-seven like to refer to our home away from home as the seventh circle of Dante's hell—reserved especially for the violent."

The soldier with the crooked nose laughed as he pumped Hawkeye's hand. "If that's the case then we're from the ninth circle—reserved especially for the treacherous."

"Oh, then this should be a vacation for you!" Hawkeye dropped the soldier's handshake. He moved as if to put his palm in the small of Virginia's back—like he did when he introduced her during their life stateside—but his fingers only brushed her back as his arm fell to his side. Again, she almost sighed. Even for him, old habits died hard.

"I'm Hawkeye Pierce," he continued. "This is Trapper John McIntyre and Virginia."

Virginia ruffled when he neglected to give her last name. She kept quiet, shook the crooked man's hand when he offered it, a pinched smile on her face.

"I'm Captain Andrews. We're grateful to you for opening up your camp."

Trapper shrugged. The lollipop in his mouth bobbed as he spoke. "We didn't really have a choice. Your general made the decision before we could have our say."

Hawkeye grasped Trapper's shoulder. "You'll have to forgive our Trapper. He still believes this war is fought and won through democracy."

Withdrawing a pack of cigarettes, Andrews snorted. He shoved the butt of a cigarette between his teeth. "You're telling me."

Another soldier ambled over to Andrews, his duffel bag swung over his shoulder. A coif of golden brown hair and crystal blue eyes stood out against his black uniform. He stood strong and tall, confident in an easy sort of way. Their eyes met for the briefest of seconds and her stomach flipped. Virginia swallowed. Good gracious, she was ogling another man as she stood side by side with her husband. Perhaps she should visit confession…

The soldier elbowed Andrews and nodded toward the rows of tents. "You're bunking with me, Captain," he said.

"Fine, Clark. Why don't you take your things over? I'll be there shortly."

Clark nodded, his gaze trailing back to Virginia, before he walked off.

"What's a Brit doing in an American unit?" Trapper asked, referring to Clark's polished accent.

Andrews, his cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips, shrugged. He scooped up his own duffel bag and heaved it over his shoulder. "What are any of us doing here, Doctor?"

Hawkeye clapped Andrews' back with a hearty laugh. "You'll fit in just fine around here."

Radar rushed by, clutching his hat to his head, eyes wild with alarm. "Choppers! Choppers, everybody!"

As if on cue, the alarm sounded. It spurred the camp to action, its harsh sound a reminder that there was no rest for the weary in Korea. Nurses and enlisted men flooded the compound as they made their way to their stations. Andrews looked on at the commotion with something akin to amazement. He motioned to the flurry of wounded, medical personnel, and vehicles.

"Is it like this every day?" he asked.

"Just about."

Andrews shook his head, stepping out of the way of a litter carrying a man with a bleeding head. "And I thought the front was chaotic." He sighed. "Now I just need to find my tent…"

Virginia spoke for the first time since exiting the officer's meeting. "I can show you," she said. "I need to grab something from my tent before I scrub up anyway."

"You couldn't be in finer hands, Captain." Hawkeye shrugged off his bathrobe and bid Andrews goodbye before hurrying to the scrub room with Trapper.

Andrews lingered a moment, his brow furrowed. "Odd fellow," he mumbled. For the first time, Virginia noted the captain's age. Gray hair colored his temples and worn, deep lines creased his face. She doubted he had yet to experience a soldier much like Hawkeye in all his years in the service.

Virginia drew in a deep breath through her nose. "You don't know the half of it." She held out her hand toward the tents. "Let me show you the way."

The pair made small talk as they walked. Virginia didn't mention her relationship to Hawkeye; nor did she allow herself to ruminate over his parting comment.

_You couldn't be in finer hands._

Why did he have to play games with her mind?

Andrews' tent was three doors down from the one she shared with Margaret. He walked through the door without knocking. Clark stood inside, his neck bent at an awkward angle to avoid hitting the ceiling due to his impressive height. He'd shed his outer jacket, revealing a tight black shirt beneath. His arm muscles strained through the thin fabric. Virginia caught herself staring and made to leave, but Andrews stopped her with an introduction.

"Charlie," he said to Clark. "This is Doctor Virginia. She's from Philly like me. She's from Cedar Park, but we won't hold that against her, will we?"

Clark wiped his hands on his trousers before clasping her fingers between both of his palms. "No, I'm sure we won't, Dick." A sweet smile crossed his gentle features; he squeezed her hand. "Charles Clark."

Virginia wiggled her fingers out of his grasp, sure her palm left a trail of sweat behind. She shoved her hands behind her back. She would be late to scrub in, but damn if his eyes weren't beautiful and his stare wasn't holding her captive. What would a few minutes hurt? Looking wasn't doing, though her conscience told her otherwise. She shoved the pesky do-gooder away.

"How'd you come to be in an American unit, Charles?" she asked.

"Call me Charlie. Everybody does." He moved back to his cot to continue unpacking. "I was recruited. That's all I can say." As if to throw more gasoline on the fire in her chest, he tossed her a wink, the corners of his mouth smirking.

Her stomach did a summersault. Oh Lord, she was in trouble. She couldn't remember the last time a little flirting got her so worked up.

With a thumping heart, Virginia made her excuses and rushed to her tent before any more damage could be done. Her hands shook as she threw her hair back. Her reflection in the mirror only made it worse: flushed face, doe eyes, girlish grin. She would be caught in an instant.

The door opened and Margaret stepped over the threshold. She leaned to her bedside table, took a hair ribbon, then looked at Virginia. Shock registered on her face and she glanced over her shoulder before grabbing Virginia's arm.

"Who is he?" she whispered.

"What?" Virginia grabbed a medical cap from her stash and shoved it on. She tucked the flyaway hairs underneath and ignored Margaret's probing eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've met someone."

Shaking her head, Virginia left the tent and hurried for the operation room. Margaret followed at the heels, her voice low and conspiratorial as she spoke.

"I can see it in your eyes, Virginia," she said. "It's one of those Special Forces guys, isn't it? Which one?" She opened the scrub room door and paused. "I bet it's the redhead. You seem like a redhead type."

Virginia turned around in the doorway. Though Hawkeye was already in surgery, she was still too close for comfort. She leveled Margaret a warning stare. The other woman feigned innocence. For a moment, they stood in a stalemate, both unwilling to surrender before they got what they wanted. Margaret broke first, and before long, her giggles caught on with Virginia. After scrubbing up, they made their way into the operating room, their wide smiles and girlish laughter hidden behind their masks.

"Ah, so nice of you two to join us." Henry motioned toward the last table. "Virginia, fix that man's chest, will you? Margaret, you assist."

The pair shared an amused look and final laugh before taking their places.


	10. Chapter 7

_A man with charm is a very dangerous thing._

_MASH Unit 4077. January, 1951._

_Worn, well-worked fingers skimmed her waist. He lifted her with ease and set her on the table. It wobbled; she fell closer still. He smelled of aftershave and gunpowder. She tilted her head back, allowing him better access to the hollow of her throat. He got the hint, obliged, his mouth warm and wet. _

_She shuddered._

_Her hands weaved through his hair as his lips moved across her skin. The soft tendrils slipped through her grasp like water. With a gentle tug to his hair, she brought their lips together. The arm around her waist tightened. His heartbeat drummed against her chest. She pulled away to catch her breath, eager to study his face, the breadth of his shoulders, the muscles in his arms. When he spoke, labored whispers told her he was just as affected by her as she was by him. _

_"You kiss by the book," he said._

_In the rays of moonlight streaming through the window, she hoped he could see her smile. "Did you just quote Shakespeare?"_

_"I'm a Brit. The Bard runs through our very blood."_

_He settled his mouth over hers again, his earlier gentlemanly caresses dissolving into frenzied touches and—_

Virginia woke with a start. She bolted upright, chest heaving as she struggled to even her breathing. Cold sweat clung to her body; her mouth was dry. A dull ache pounded in her belly.

Jiminy Cricket! She'd just dreamt of a man other than her husband! She'd only had a brief conversation with Clark; nevertheless, here she was imagining him kissing her, touching her…

She threw back the covers and planted her feet on solid ground. Her head fell to her hands and she all but groaned. After hours cutting into, rearranging, and repairing underage soldiers, all she wanted was a good night's rest, a dreamless sleep. She would rather a nightmare—an insane clown or surgery gone wrong—than an all-too-vivid dream of another man. Yet…

If she thought hard enough, she could still feel his fingers ghost over her skin. And if she concentrated well, she could still hear him murmur in the darkness sweet nothings about the future.

Banishing the memories from her mind, Virginia jumped from bed and shoved her arms in her dressing gown. The silky fabric cooled her hot skin. Something in the gown's pocket bumped her leg as she tip-toed toward the door, careful not to wake Margaret. After fishing in the pocket, she withdrew a silver bracelet. The dainty chain swung back and forth as she held it up to inspect. A round sapphire gem, her birthstone, winked at her in the moonlight. At once the chain grew warm as shame flooded her body. Virginia cursed under her breath and shoved the bracelet in the pocket.

The first gift Hawkeye had ever given her. She'd lost it over a year earlier. At least, she thought she had… Of course she would find it after having inappropriate dreams of someone other than him.

With a cocktail of irritation and hedonism brewing in her stomach, Virginia stalked toward the post-op ward. Her feet, covered only by a pair of black slippers, slushed through the snow too stubborn to melt. Inside the ward, she removed the wet shoes and padded on her bare feet into the recovery room. Bile rose to her throat when she saw the doctor on night duty.

Hawkeye.

He turned from his current patient as the door closed, shock overtaking his features. The white lab coat he so seldom wore gave him the appearance of a professional rather than an insufferable flirt and practical jokester. The folder under his arm looked bloated with paperwork. A stub pencil behind his ear dared her to throw a snide remark at his penchant for ignoring his more menial duties.

She could turn, leave, crawl under her covers, and return to a dreamland with a man who wanted her. Or she could stay, face the man who had wanted her once but no longer, and find a modicum of usefulness in this useless war.

She decided to stay.

"Good evening," she said as she passed him.

He stood, grabbed his stool, and followed as she made her way down the aisle. "It's actually… three o'clock in the morning. Couldn't sleep?"

She hummed in response as she came to the bed she wanted. Her eyes scanned the clipboard hanging from the bar. _Private Nathaniel Jones. Twenty-one. DOB: 7/18/29. Injury: Gun and shrapnel wounds to the upper-chest cavity. _

The day before she'd performed the intense procedure alongside Margaret to remove the shrapnel from his chest. Whatever humor they had walked into the operating room with had fled the moment they saw his wounds. Now, almost ten hours after the six-hour operation, Virginia couldn't help but worry.

At the moment, Private Jones slept soundly. A mop of sandy blond hair, round cheeks, and jawline marked with pimples instead of stubble made him look more youth than man. However, the purple heart pinned to his shoulder bespoke his place among the bravest of mankind. Dark bruises covered one half of his face, and his chest rose and fell at an uneven pace. No, she reminded herself, he wasn't in the clear yet.

She sat on the bedside. The springs creaked. Nathaniel's brow furrowed.

"Can I borrow your stethoscope?"

On the other side of the bed, Hawkeye sat on his stool, the file of papers open on his lap. He glanced up at her question then handed her the instrument. She listened to Nathaniel's heart, its beat faint but steady. She listened to his lungs and pulled away, sighing.

"His lungs are struggling," she said.

Hawkeye shut the folder and reached for the stethoscope. After listening for himself, he shrugged. "Doesn't sound serious to me. You did a hell of a job on him. And I mean that in a good way."

"Eighteen pieces of shrapnel. I'm not even positive if I got everything it was so messy. His insides were like…"

"Meatballs," he supplied, his voice flat.

"Yeah… meatballs." Virginia rubbed a hand through her hair as her eyes studied the wounded soldier. A lump formed in her throat, and she found herself taking her patient's hand. It felt cold between her palms. "He looks like Billy," she whispered.

The air stilled. She turned, watched Hawkeye's face twist in the memory of their seventeen-year-old neighbor, killed in a hunting accident. Billy's father had brought him to their home, his hunter's outfit drenched in his son's blood. Hawkeye blamed the three miles between the Robertson home and their secluded cottage; he claimed he could have saved the boy had they lived closer. But by the time Albert Robertson knocked on their door, Billy was gone, succumbed to the bullet wound in his shoulder.

A tear slipped down her cheek. She brushed it away. "He probably would have been here had he lived," she said. "In Korea, I mean. He was always so patriotic, like Frank in a way."

Hawkeye shifted on his stool. His dog tags jingled as he dipped his head.

Virginia's hand tightened as more tears pooled in her vision. Blast it! She couldn't cry—not in front of him. Sitting straight, she managed a harsh laugh and dragged her hand under her nose.

"I remember the time he watched Remington when we went to visit my family—only he didn't mention he was allergic to cats. His eyes were swollen to high heaven and he was covered in a rash from head to foot when we got home." Her laugh sounded taut with restrained emotion. "You were so angry with him! 'Goddammit, Billy!' you said. 'You shouldn't have said yes if you're allergic to the damn thing! Your eyes are big enough to carry you away like balloons.'"

She shook her head as her laughter subsided, the memory sweet, the sting of what came after bitter. "How could we know he'd be shot only days later? The rash hadn't even…" Pulling in a sharp breath, her eyes darted to Hawkeye. He sat still, immobile, unmoved as he stared at the soldier in bed. When she spoke, her voice was thin and breakable. "How many more Billys will I have to sew up before this is all over?"

He rose from his seat without a word. A muscle in his jaw ticked. Virginia stared at him, waiting, watching for his lips to part and a single word of kindness to fill the void between them. She wasn't asking for much, just reassurance she wasn't the only one on the verge of insanity. In days gone by, he'd been quick to kiss her head and talk her down at the slightest hint of uncertainty. Now he stood like a statue, his face all but blank. She'd never seen him so emotionless. Her wedding ring, nestled between his tags, taunted her, reminded her of the time he'd cared.

"Ben?" Her voice cracked and, at the sound, his attention shot to her. Her hand moved of its own accord and reached for him. When her fingertips grazed his skin, he stepped back, his chest filling with air, his shoulders at attention. She stood. "Hawkeye—"

The door banged open and a sleepy Radar stumbled in, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. Relief flooded Hawkeye's face. He practically ran to the corporal's side.

Virginia bit her lip. She tasted metal as blood trickled on her tongue. She wouldn't cry. She mustn't cry.

"Oh, hey, Captain Pierce." Radar's sleep-coated voice broke through Virginia's concentration. "If you're here, I guess I'll tell you, too. General McArthur may be coming to visit us what with the special forces here and all. Isn't that wild?" His eager smile faltered. "You okay, ma'am?"

_Hell._

The first of her tears fell at Radar's innocent question. She was powerless to stop them. They rushed down her cheeks in a traitorous display of Hawkeye's hold over her heart. Salt mingled with the taste of metal in her mouth.

"Gee…" Radar glanced over his shoulder. Hawkeye, seeing her tears, inched forward, concern pushing through his mask of disinterest.

A sob worked its way up Virginia's throat. Before it escaped, she shoved it down, holding her hand against her mouth. She had to get out of there. She couldn't stand to look at him any longer. Turning on her heel, she tore from the hospital. Her slippers skidded on the freshly cleaned floor, but she made her way into the cold night air before she could fall on her face. Once outside, she pulled the bracelet from her pocket and threw it into the darkness. A _pling _sounded when the jewelry hit rock and brush. She stood still then, her cheeks growing stiff as her tears froze. Numbness stiffened her body.

"Captain Pierce?"

Virginia startled. She turned. Father Mulcahy stood in the yellow light of a nearby lamppost. His eyes scanned her lack of uniform and proper dress for the weather, and a crease appeared on his brow. He stepped forward, away from the light, and entered her darkness.

"Are you all right?" His voice, earnest and sweet, melted the ice around Virginia's heart.

"If I asked you a question, Father," she began, "would you answer it honestly?"

Mulcahy nodded. "Of course."

"How many women has Hawkeye been with?" His head jerked back in surprise, and she swore she saw embarrassment color his cheeks. "You promised," she urged.

But Mulcahy faltered. "I—I really couldn't say. That's none of my business." He stumbled backwards, out of the darkness and into the light—just a step, but enough to give her the true answer.

Virginia said nothing more. She swept past the Father, the hem of her dressing gown heavy with snow. Back in her tent, she rifled through her desk door until she located her notebook. Ripping out a clean sheet, she scribbled a few words, folded the paper, and tucked it beneath her pillow.

Hawkeye thought he could do whatever he wished behind her back, treat her with kindness in front of the others, but ignore her when she was at her most vulnerable? Fine.

Two could play at that game.

.::.

The following morning, Virginia whisked into the mess tent with the vengeance of Scarlett O'Hara pumping through her blood. She'd channeled all the spite, anger, and childlike pettiness buried within as she prepared for breakfast. She'd done her hair the way Hawkeye liked—long, soft curls with a pale pink ribbon holding back the top half. Her outfit left more to be desired thanks to army regulations, but she'd taken a page from Klinger's book and slipped on her drop-pearl earrings. She'd dabbed her lily of the valley perfume behind her ears and on her wrists. Now, as she walked, chin high, through the mess tent, she kept her eyes trained on one thing.

Charlie Clark.

With calculated movements, she dipped into the coffee line. The thick white mug shook in her trembling hands. Droplets of hot liquid burnt her wrists as she topped off her cup. Coffee poured and satisfactorily sweet, she turned and faced the mess tent, mug's edge poised at her mouth.

On one side of the tent sat Hawkeye. He hadn't slept well—she could see it in the lines on his forehead and his puffy eyes. Despite that, he laughed alongside Trapper, their amusement centered on a visibly ruffled Frank.

On the other side sat Emily, the nurse Virginia had caught Hawkeye with on her first day. Emily had assisted her on a few surgeries and been nothing but pleasant, but she was everything Virginia wasn't: buxom, blonde, easily impressed, and flirtatious. Virginia was slim, hard to win, and straight laced. It seemed he was more interested in no strings attached than a committed relationship.

Well, she had learned a few things from him about no strings, and she aimed to put that knowledge to good use. After all, Hawkeye always told her a little fun never killed anyone.

As she stepped toward Charlie, she fought her better nature. Now was not the time for fidelity or faithfulness, no matter how much she yearned for her husband. He'd burnt her too many times. With blood pumping in her ears, she reached in her pocket and pulled out the note she'd written the night before. She dropped it to the empty spot on the bench beside him before moving to take her seat beside Ginger two tables away. From her place, she watched him open the paper, watched his eyes scan the words.

He looked up, met her eyes, and smiled.

Virginia sat straight, grinning. Damn if it didn't feel good to break the rules.

* * *

**A/N: **_Thoughts on Virginia's actions? Ideas for her plan? Love to hear from you!_


	11. Chapter 8

_I hate how I can't forget you._

_MASH Unit 4077. January, 1951._

Night had fallen.

Virginia waited. Damp cold seeped through her coat and she huddled further in the doorway. How long had she been waiting? Had she misread his smile as acceptance? Maybe he wasn't coming…

_Behind the hospital. Twenty-three hundred hours._

The words of her note were permanently burnt in the forefront of her mind.

Meeting Charlie behind the hospital was risky, but in the middle of winter she doubted anyone would talk a leisurely stroll around camp post-shift. Besides, the idea of getting caught sent a thrill down her spine. Still, if she checked her watch, she knew it was well-past eleven.

Across the yard, a single lamppost above the latrines illuminated the well-worn road leaving camp. A gentle snowfall began, the white flakes sparkling in the light. Footsteps broke the silence.

Charlie rounded the corner. His breath fanned her face in icy puffs, and his smile, bright and anxious, lit a fire in her core. For a moment, he stood before her, hands shoved in his coat pockets, his broad shoulders obscuring the lamplight. A wave of emotion crashed over Virginia. Her palms grew warm, her breathing labored. Her mind told her to flee, run back to her tent, and forget she'd ever proposed such a silly idea. But her heart—oh, her aching heart told her to stay.

She opened her mouth to speak first. "I wasn't sure if—"

Charlie silenced her with a kiss. At first, Virginia wasn't sure what to do. She stood still, arms at her sides like a schoolgirl in her first romantic encounter. Her mind drifted back as she tried to recall the last time Hawkeye had kissed her, really kissed her. Perhaps the last time had been when— She pushed him out of her thoughts as Charlie wound his arms around her waist.

She sighed into Charlie's touch and melded her body against his. He tasted of hot coffee and a hint of tobacco. His lips, soft, coaxed her to relax. She titled her head, curled her arms around his neck, and fell backwards into the darkness of the doorway. Her back thumped against the wall and, if she concentrated, she swore she could hear Radar talking to Sparky on the other side. Too close, her mind told her. She didn't care.

It felt like heaven to be touched, to have Charlie's hands roam her back, her waist, her chest. She reciprocated in kind and found herself running her hands along the muscles in his back and arms. His mouth was just as she had dreamt: warm, skilled, encouraging. Her toes curled in her boots.

He pulled back, cradling her face in the palms of his enormous hands. His towered over her, but she didn't feel intimidated in the slightest. "I take it this is what you had in mind when you invited me here," he whispered.

She swallowed a girlish giggle, opted for an unaffected shrug though her insides were rolling. "I thought we might exchange a few words first, but yes."

"Words are overrated."

His lips found her jaw. She dipped her head back, felt her eyes roll backwards in bliss. Her nails dug into his shoulders as his mouth moved lower, toward her collar bone. Sweet heaven, this was wrong. Yet as he kissed her skin and she ran her fingers through his hair, some part of her knew it was right.

"Oh… Hawkeye…"

The name fell from between her lips before she could stop it, almost like an unconscious prayer. At once, Charlie froze. Virginia's eyes flew open, her lips parted in humiliation rather than pleasure. Ice chilled her hot blood.

Charlie stepped back. His hands slid from her waist to her arms. He held her at a distance, his eyebrow quirked. "Hawkeye…" The word was slow, a question rather than an accusation.

She searched for an answer, some sort of explanation, but came up with nothing except for the truth. "Doctor Pierce…" she started. Her voice was thick; she cleared her throat. "Hawkeye and I are married."

Charlie scoffed. The white plume curled in the night sky as he backed out of the doorway. Brow tight in a frown, he shook his head as if in disbelief. "I'm sorry? You're married?"

"Yes." Virginia wrapped her arms around her chest as a frigid gust of wind tore across her body. "Hadn't you wondered why I never gave you my last name?"

"I just assumed it didn't matter." He tugged at his hair, distress coloring his face. "It's not like you or I would ever—It's not like I want anything serious."

Virginia lifted her chin. Rejection sat in the wing, waiting for its turn to take the stage. She refused to allow it. "Neither do I."

"Well, I don't want anything serious or unserious with a married woman! Least of all with a woman married to a doctor I highly admire." He waved his hand, as if to keep her in the shadows. "You should have told me."

"I don't see why. He and I are barely on speaking terms, much less physical or emotional terms." She hugged herself tighter and whispered, "He's practically a stranger to me now."

Charlie's shoulders dropped. He swiped a hand down his face and cast a look to his right, toward the chopper pad. Snowflakes settled in his unkempt hair. "Be that as it may," he finally said, "I won't fool around with a married woman." Perhaps to soften the blow, he shot her a sideways grin. "No matter how much I like her."

He was right, of course. She was wrong to have suggested anything. She was sure if she thought about it long enough, guilt would tear a hole through her stomach. But she wouldn't think on it, not any of it. She would take the whole embarrassing ordeal, wrap it in a box complete with a bow, and throw it in the middle of the fighting. It would be taken care of there—for good.

The sirens blared, breaking the bubble surrounding Virginia and her would-be paramour. He startled at the sound.

"That's my cue."

Charlie nodded. He shuffled, unsure, on his feet. "I'll…" He sighed. "I won't say anything to him."

The thought hadn't crossed her mind that he might. She was thankful, nonetheless.

A flurry of footsteps headed toward the chopper pad sent Charlie on his way without another word.

Virginia's jaw tightened and, for the briefest of seconds, rejection, despair, and regret coiled together in a knot in her stomach. She let the knot linger and the emotions spread through her body. Her eyes fluttered shut; a tear broke free and slid down her cheek. She wiped it away with an angry hand.

She wasn't sure what made her cry. Charlie's rejection? No—though he was a handsome devil, she didn't give a damn about his opinion. Hawkeye's rejection? No—it would always hurt her, but she'd long ago forced herself not to cry when she thought of it. Perhaps she cried because she never expected her life would turn out this way. She never expected to be in Korea, in the middle of winter, having just been rejected by a British soldier while her husband slept two buildings away.

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

She opened her eyes as the sirens continued. Stepping out of the shadows, she shook herself free of the evening's events. She promised herself she would never think on it again. It had been a silly mistake, an unsuccessful and unsatisfactory attempt at vengeance.

Across the yard, Father Mulcahy stood beneath the lamplight. He caught Virginia's eye, and she stilled. He lifted a hand in a wave, his face pinched in discomfort. She swore under her breath, turned on her heel, and rushed for the hospital.

.::.

No one spoke in the scrub room.

Sometime during the night, a North Korean battalion had gotten confused and bombed a local orphanage instead of their intended target. Now, doctors and nurses prepared themselves to meet child after child on the cutting table. If Virginia normally dreaded her hours in operation, tonight, she would rather cut off her own hands than have to witness the horrors of war forced upon children.

Father Mulcahy entered the room, robed in white, his purple sash the only spot of color amongst the somber medical staff. He shouldered his way to Virginia at the washstand. She tensed when he neared and hurried her washing.

"Father," she said in acknowledgement. The water pouring over her skin burned.

Mulcahy bent close as he, too, began to prepare for the operation room. "Would you like to talk about it?"

Virginia straightened. So, he had seen…

She shook the water from her hands then waited as Kellye rubbed her arms dry. Once Kellye was gone, she skewered Mulcahy with a dark look. He blanched but held her stare.

"No, I wouldn't."

He pressed onward anyway, ever diligent to his job. "I can understand how you must be feeling, Virginia," he began. "Lonely, afraid—"

"Stop right there, Father." Virginia held up her hand and lowered her voice, though the last of the nursing staff had already entered the hospital. She was late to her post; Henry would have a fit. Still, she wanted Father Mulcahy to hear her loud and clear.

"Don't presume anything about how I feel. I know you're here to help us… feel better… but—" She stopped short, considering. "Have you ever been in love, Father?"

Mulcahy tilted his head in confusion. "I—Well, I suppose—" He sighed. "Before I took my orders, there was a girl… That was a long time ago."

"Still, do you know what it feels like to be hopelessly in love with someone, to know on some level they love you in return, but watch them..." She trailed off, unsure if she could finish the sentence.

He stayed quiet a moment, his brow puckered in thought, as if he truly were considering Virginia's position. "No, I don't know that feeling." He looked up, met her eye, and understanding glimmered there. "But I may feel tempted to look elsewhere, too."

She felt her chin quiver as Mulcahy looked on her with such kindness. She set her jaw hard.

The door banged open. The angry voice of Henry Blake ruptured the moment. "Virginia, get your ass in here!"

Mulcahy grimaced. "You'd better go. I'll be right behind you."

Practically running, Virginia entered the operating room, one hand tying her mask, the other wiggling into a glove. Every operating table hosted a body much too small to be there. The tables were built for men, not children. The air circulating the doctors and nurses was heavier than normal; the normal ribs and jokes were few and far in-between. She swallowed hard.

From his place over the body of a young teenage girl, Henry nodded to Hawkeye's post. "Assist him."

She was in too much trouble to argue.

Virginia took up her post, relieving Allison, who left with a sympathetic smile. The child on the table—all but five and smudged with blood dirt—looked like an angel in his drug-induced sleep. Virginia slipped a glove on her ungloved hand and waited for Hawkeye's first instructions.

"Where were you?"

She looked up from the child's mangled chest. Hawkeye remained focused on his work, his hands steady, his gaze intent. "I… Father Mulcahy wanted a word."

"I see. Gauze here." He pointed to a portion of the boy's exposed ribcage. "I'm gonna have to cauterize this damn thing. Won't stop bleeding."

"Do you want a Kelly clamp? For those muscles there?"

He shook his head. "No, not yet." He shifted, flicked his sweat-matted hair off his forehead. Virginia wiped his brow. "Thanks." A pause. "I wanted to apologize," he started. "For last night and what I said—Well, didn't say. Suction."

Virginia's hands shook as she put the tube on the underside of the wound. He continued.

"I should have said something, anything—I don't know. It's just… Billy… I think of him every time I come in this room."

"Hawkeye—"

"No, Beth, let me finish."

That damned nickname—it stopped her in her tracks every time. She was powerless when he used it.

"I'm sorry. I should have comforted you. That's what I'm supposed to do… as your husband. I—I wanted to, but things have been strained between us. I didn't know how you would react."

"Coronel, tell Pierce to keep his domestics out of the O.R.!"

"Can it, Frank!"

With a sigh, Hawkeye lowered his voice. "That's it. That's all I rehearsed." She looked up, met his clear eyes over the child's body, and felt tears blur her vision. "Crying is going to mess up your work, Doctor," he said, an amused glint in his eye. "I may have to fire you. We only take the best in Korea, you know. That's why we have Frank Burns."

"What was that, Pierce?"

Hawkeye spoke up, waving the scalpel in his hand. "I was just telling Doctor Pierce here how lucky we are to have you, Frank."

"Oh, well, thank you. Glad you finally recognized my vital role in the outfit."

Virginia held Hawkeye's stare. A slow smile spread across her lips. "Yes, Frank. Hawkeye was just telling me how lucky we are to have a living example of what not to do as a doctor. You really are vital."

"Ah!" Frank's offended cry broke some of the tension in the room; muffled chuckles filtered throughout the staff. "Gee, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Or something like that."

Hawkeye shook his head side to side, slow, as if in amazement. His eyes glowed. "I could kiss you, Mrs. Pierce."

Virginia's heart tumbled in her chest. All thoughts, all wishes and fanciful dreams of other men whisking her off her feet, were gone. Hawkeye had been and always would be her one and only. Perhaps, if he had truly mended his ways as Trapper claimed, forgiveness wasn't out of the question. Still, she had been burnt before…

With a slight edge to her voice, more for her own safety than Hawkeye's, she lifted an eyebrow. "I dare you to try, Mr. Pierce."

* * *

**_A/N: _**_Well... things seem to be progressing between the two. Thoughts? Opinions? Does Hawkeye deserve a second (er... third?) chance?_


	12. Chapter 9

_Perhaps the light at the end of the tunnel is drawing near._

_MASH Unit 4077. March, 1951._

Spring bloomed in Korea after a long, heavy winter. January had ended with a record breaking six hundred combined hours in the operating room. February had been much of the same. Virginia wasn't sure she slept for two entire months.

On the bright side, the forced time with Hawkeye had begun to thaw the foot-thick ice around her heart. She no longer froze when she saw him around camp, no longer wanted to run the other way. Instead, an age-old flutter stirred in her chest, and she found herself blushing whenever he was near. It was as if she were meeting him for the first time all over again.

But despite the flutter and despite the hope flowering in her heart like the signs of spring around camp, she remained cautious. She had forgiven him for his faults—for his _betrayals_—twice over. Oh, she was a fool to even consider giving him another chance! Yet, as friends and family from Philadelphia to Crabapple Cove knew, she was a hopeless fool when it came to Benjamin Franklin Pierce. Still, she refused to allow him more than a simple press of the hand to her back (though, it wasn't as if he had tried anything more), and she kept their conversations casual and friendly rather than intimate and trusting.

"Mail call!"

Virginia looked up from her breakfast—powered eggs, toast, and day old coffee. Radar stood at the front of the mess, already swarmed with information-hungry personnel. Rising from her bench, she waited in line until it was her turn.

"Anything for me, Radar?"

Radar flipped through his stack, mumbling as he went. "Baker… Lewis… McIntyre… Oswald… Pierce!" He unearthed two envelopes and a folded newspaper. "Mail for both of the Pierces, ma'am."

She returned to her seat and set aside Hawkeye's letter from his father, as well as the Crabapple Cove newspaper. The letter in her hand was slim and square, the script on the front elegant. Her mother's handwriting. A pang of homesickness shot through her as she slipped her nail under the seal. It had been a good month or more since she last heard from her mother, and she ached for some happy news from home.

Hawkeye, followed close by Trapper as usual, slid onto the bench across from her. He dropped his tray with a clatter and reached for the newspaper. "Morning," he said, his cheek stuffed with eggs. He flipped through the newspaper with sleepy eyes.

Virginia blinked, the letter stalled in its exit from the envelope. She glanced over her shoulder. Plenty of tables around the mess had empty seats. The table Hawkeye usually occupied was completely empty, save for Frank and Margaret. Yet this morning marked the fifth morning in a row Hawkeye had chosen to sit with her. She shut her gaping mouth and counted it a step in the direction of friendship and peace.

Trapper, on the other hand, was not interested in friendship with Virginia. He tolerated her, and she, in turn, tolerated him. Whenever possible, the pair avoided one another. In moments like these, when Hawkeye inadvertently forced the threesome together, Virginia couldn't help but feel in competition with Trapper. She supposed he felt the same. Hawkeye's attention was their end goal, and both would sacrifice the other to get it.

In a piss-poor attempt at civility, Virginia pushed her tray toward Trapper. "Trapper, would you like my toast?"

Trapper glanced up from his own mail, surprised. He then shrugged. "Yeah, sure." Tearing off a corner of the toast with his teeth, he wrinkled his nose. "This stuff stinks."

Hawkeye didn't look away from his paper when he spoke. "And you're surprised?"

Something akin to domesticity swelled in Virginia's chest as the trio fell into a comfortable quiet. Memories of slow mornings in Maine—coffee for him, tea for herself, the paper and a book—shuffled through her mind.

She returned her attention to her mother's letter before sentimentality could get the best of her.

_"My dear Virginia,_

_The weather here is swell—humid, but perfect for the children to host a lemonade stand. Maryanne thinks Robert will follow after his father's footsteps in the business world with how well he runs those little operations. Your sister really does have her hands full with the twins, but she's blossomed as a mother, like you will one day. _

_Are you and Benjamin thinking of children yet? It's never too late…"_

She scanned the rest of the page before lowering it with a sigh. An ache formed in the front of her head, and she squeezed the bridge of her nose in an attempt to relieve the pain.

"What is it?" The newspaper crinkled as Hawkeye set it to the side. The worry line in his forehead appeared, and she had the ridiculous urge to reach across the table and smooth it away. She curled her fist instead.

Waving her hand in dismissal, Virginia resealed the letter in its envelope. "Oh, just my mother."

Hawkeye rolled his eyes and made a face at Trapper. "That woman will be the death of me."

"And you'll be the death of her!" She turned to fill Trapper in on the long-standing animosity between her husband and her mother. "When I brought Ben home to Philadelphia after we got engaged, the first thing he told my mother was, 'Ma'am, your daughter has the body of an angel and I would love nothing more than to worship it for the rest of my life.' I believe Mother almost fainted. She's hated him ever since."

"In my defense, I wasn't wrong." His gaze slid to hers, sly and mischievous. "I'm a doctor and I know a good body when I see one."

"Oh!" Virginia rolled up the newspaper and swatted his shoulder. He laughed and caught her wrist before she could do any damage to the paper or himself. "That's hardly a topic for the breakfast table!"

"We'll save it for the dinner table, then!"

"Hey, you two, I'd like to keep my breakfast in my stomach, if you don't mind."

Virginia blanched, pushing aside her half-eaten meal. "Whatever for?"

Trapper dug into her leftovers with gusto. "Well, somebody's gotta keep in shape. I am the best-looking man around camp. I've got a physique to protect."

Henry clapped his hands together, calling "Attention, attention, all!", before either Virginia or Hawkeye could make a quick retort. He stood in the center of the mess, shadowed by Radar and another man in uniform. The man's brass weighed heavy on his shoulders. Virginia wanted to make a comment, but then she looked down at her fingers still entwined with Hawkeye's, and she decided not to break the moment.

Once conversation faded out, Henry continued. "As you all know, we've had some guests here at the four-oh-seven-seven these last few months—" A smattering of applause and cheers circulated the tables. Virginia, well-aware of Charlie Clark's spot one table over, kept her applause perfunctory. "Well, it's about time our guests moved onwards and upwards. General Braxis is here to say a few words, so be nice."

Hawkeye and Trapper feigned shock when Henry directed them a pointed look.

The portly General Braxis, red-cheeked and smiling, took Henry's spot before the camp. When he spoke, his voice was high and feminine, earning muffled chuckles of surprise. "The United States is indebted to you, ladies and gentlemen. You've sheltered some of our finest men in their hour of need, and we couldn't be more grateful. Your coronel and myself were trying to dream up a way to show our mutual thanks—"

Trapper cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "How about a discharge?". The laughter skittering around the room swelled in response.

General Braxis ignored the comment, however. "It's been a hectic week here, but intel says there shouldn't be any more incoming wounded for the next thirty-six hours." He beamed as everyone breathed a collective relieved sigh, Virginia included. The past few days had been hell, and a thirty-six-hour break sounded like a slice of heaven.

"So, in appreciation for all the extra space and food you've given up since our arrival—"

"And as a proper send-off," Henry said, nudging Braxis with his elbow.

"Tonight there will be a dance outside the officer's club. Everyone is invited—enlisted, patient, doctor, international spy. So long as you come dressed to impress and with your dancing shoes on, you've got a ticket in."

.::.

Ever since General Braxis and Henry had announced the evening's festivities, the air buzzed with excitement. The line for the showers threatened to wrap around the latrine, and everywhere she looked another corporal or lieutenant had set out their dress uniform. But as Virginia watched her fellow female campmates press their hair and don the only civilian dress they brought to Korea, she hung to the side, chewing her nail.

It wasn't that she disliked the idea. In fact, she thought it was a savvy move on Henry's part for keeping his often disconnect troops happy. The idea of spending an entire evening under the stars with music and laughter and palatable food would boost spirits more than any cheap movie ever could. And as she watched Klinger and Radar string lights around the compound and when she caught a whiff of the meal General Braxis ordered from Tokyo, she, too, couldn't help but look forward to the evening.

The only problem came down to her lack of proper attire. Unlike the rest of her counterparts, when packing for a war, she'd never thought to pack a dress of any kind. She wouldn't go to the party in her dress uniform. Damnit, she wanted to look good! However, finding an extra dress around camp was proving to be harder than she thought.

"I really am sorry, Virginia," Margaret said, turning away from her closet emptyhanded. "I lent out what I had, which wasn't much."

"Minutes too late, I suppose." Virginia shrugged, though her chest twisted in disappointment. She dropped to her cot and unwrapped her wet hair from the towel. "I guess—"

A glare silenced the rest of her sentence. "Don't wear your uniform! You want to look attractive, don't you? I love the army, but those uniforms do no one any favors. Besides"—Margaret's eyebrows rose in interest—"I thought you had your eye on someone…"

Virginia shook her head and said no more. With the busy winter season and little time for rest, she and Margaret had not had the chance to discuss her triste with Charlie. Margaret often questioned about the mystery man of Virginia's affections, but never got an answer. Really, there was nothing to say. She'd done her best to forget that stolen moment in the snowfall, and most days, her efforts worked.

"Well, there's no harm in looking good regardless." Margaret sat down at her dressing table and began brushing through her golden hair. "Why don't you check with Klinger?"

Virginia almost laughed. "I highly doubt anything made by Klinger will fit me."

"It's either Klinger or the brown linen."

Virginia loathed to admit it but Margaret was right. She would go to the dance in a dress three sizes too large before wearing her uniform.

She made her way to Klinger's tent, hopeful she was discreet enough not to draw any attention. With a timid hand, she knocked on the door. The humming within halted and a moment passed before the door opened to reveal Klinger, wearing a silk dressing gown and hair curlers. Virginia's eyebrow arched.

The man shrugged. "What? I gotta stay committed all the time—even behind closed doors."

Leaning to look past him, she caught a glimpse of the racks of women's clothing, sewing table, and stuffed mannequin. "I can see that," she said. "I admire your dedication." Bouncing from foot to foot, she hesitated before stating her request. "Look, Klinger, I was wondering if—"

"You need a dress?" Her hands fell to her sides and her lips parted in surprise, much to Klinger's amusement. "You aren't the first one to stop by, Captain. Even the most fashion forward don't think about bringing a party dress to a warzone. Unless you're Major Houlihan, of course." He waved her in. "Come have a peek at what I've got left."

Virginia entered the tent with embarrassment coloring her cheeks. Hands clasped together before her waist, she watched as Klinger set about rifling through the remaining dresses on his racks. He whistled a nonsensical tune then pulled a thin cigar out of his dressing gown pocket. Virginia thought back to the bracelet she'd thrown into the brush all those months ago. She wished she hadn't done it.

"Well, these three outta be about your size." Klinger laid out three dresses on his cot, each more different than the last. "Take your pick, Captain."

Virginia stepped to the cot's edge. She reached out to finger the hem of the nearest gown. The tulle was itchy between her fingers, and the pale blue cotton overlay was stained in the underarms. She moved on to the second dress—a bright yellow wrap gown with white scalloped sleeves; the color promised disaster next to her pale complexion. The third and final dress was pitch black and silk with an off-the-shoulder bodice, fit more for a funeral than goodbye party. She turned to Klinger.

"Which do you think would suit me best?"

Gray puffs of smoke left his mouth as he thought her question over. He eyed each dress, nodding as he ruminated, before pointing to the black tea length frock. "That one." He pulled the cigar from between his lips, grasped her shoulders, and looked her up and down. Virginia squirmed under his scrutiny. "Put on a string of pearls and nylons and you'll have 'em all beat," he said at last.

"Black doesn't suit a farewell party."

Klinger shook his head and shoved the dress into her arms. "Black suits everything."

.::.

An hour later, Virginia sat in her tent, alone, nervous, and nearly late. She stared at herself in the mirror on Margaret's dressing table. In the square frame, a weary, lovelorn woman stared back at her. She groaned, dropping her head to the desk.

Her nerves were idiotic. The people going to the party were closer to than her own family. She trusted them, relied on them, and thought the world of them. Hell, she was even excited to spend the evening alongside her husband should the opportunity present itself. So why was there a pit in her stomach? And why was her heart beating double-time?

She pushed back from the dressing table and peering into the mirror again. The gown suited her, like Klinger said it would. She looked demure in an inviting sort of way. The string of faux pearls Margaret had lent her laid easy on her chest, and her exposed shoulders looked slim smooth. But the lines at the corners of her eyes belied the stress encroaching at the back of her mind, and if she looked close enough, she swore she could see a strand or two of gray hair.

The whole evening was a farce, a ploy to make everyone feel safe in a place of extreme unsafety. The slight tremor in her hand and gnawing sensation of unease betrayed the real reality of the evening. No matter how hard Henry or General Braxis tried, this was still war. And she was tired of it.

A gentle knock tore her from her thoughts. She turned away from the mirror and smoothed the few wrinkles of her dress. "Come in."

The door cracked open and a blond head poked into the room. Mulcahy wore his typical priestly garb, though his spectacles and evening shoes shined in the lamplight. "Are you well, Virginia? Nearly everyone is gathered outside the officer's club. Henry is about to make a speech."

Virginia found herself answering his question honestly, prefaced by a sigh. "I was just… preparing myself. I can't remember the last time I went to a party."

Actually, she could: the Crabapple Cove sendoff of their own dear doctor, Hawkeye Pierce. She pushed that unhappy memory aside.

"Neither can I," Mulcahy admitted. His sing-song voice eased some of the conflict in her mind. His smile was earnest as he offered his arm. "Perhaps we can be nervous together."

"I'd like that." Virginia tucked her hand in his elbow and followed him toward the officer's club.

Music from across the camp carried on the evening breeze. The air smelled of roasted pork and butter. Above, the sky was dark, cloudless. Stars twinkled.

"Father?" Virginia deliberately slowed their walk. As the officer's club drew closer and closer, her palms grew hotter. She wanted to delay the inevitable feeling of uncertainty once she crossed the threshold for as long as she could.

"Yes?"

"Why are you so kind to me? You know what I did."

She watched Father Mulcahy swallow hard and regretted asking him on such a hopeful evening. But, ever the faithful leader, he answered in a soft voice. "Because you are more than your mistakes, Virginia." He squeezed the hand tucked in his arm. "As is your husband."

Tears stung her eyes. She sniffed hard and stopped walking to fish for the hankie she didn't have. Mulcahy offered his own and she dabbed the corner of her eyes. "Father, the night's barely begun. I'm not supposed to cry yet," she said, laughing under her breath.

Mulcahy laughed with her. "Then don't cry. For heaven's sake, enjoy yourself! Everyone here deserves a night of relaxation—especially you surgeons."

They'd reached the outer glow of the stringed lights decorating the camp yard. Virginia leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Mulcahy's cheek before she could stop herself.

"Thank you," she said. "Truly."

Cheeks red, he shook his head in dismissal. "It's nothing but the truth."

She faced the officer's club. With its doors flung wide and the dance floor moved directly outside, already crowded with swaying couples, she decided the Father was right.

To hell with reality! To hell with the war!

Tonight, she'd enjoy herself.

* * *

**A/N: **_Really enjoyed writing this chapter and the next. Things are happening, folks, and the real juicy bits are barely on the horizon. ;)_


	13. Chapter 10

**_A/N: _**_Slight warning for some sensual content._

* * *

_Oh, darling, everyone sees how you look at each other. _

_MASH Unit 4077. March, 1951._

Virginia and Father Mulcahy wrestled their way inside the full-to-bursting officer's club. Somewhere a record player played Kay Starr's "Bonaparte's Retreat" at full volume, and drinks were passed from hand to hand, smiles gleaming amidst the happy chaos. A glass of champagne found its way into Virginia's hand. She clinked glasses with the Father and took a sip. It was slightly sour, mostly sweet, and bubbly.

The male officers and enlisted men had donned their dress uniforms, creating an undulating sea of brown as the crowd ebbed and flowed. Virginia didn't mind—she loved a man in uniform. The air was heavy with cologne and aftershave, mingled with perfume and rose water from the nurses. As for the ladies, a rainbow of colors, cuts, and styles filled the building with a long-forgotten energy. Laughter flowed at the same rate as the alcohol, and, for a moment, the war was forgotten.

"You look marvelous, Captain Pierce! I told you black fits every occasion." Virginia twisted at the sound of Klinger's knowing voice. Her brows rose as she took in his eveningwear.

"My, Klinger! You certainly took General Braxis's word to heart. I am… impressed."

Klinger, dressed in a turquoise sequin cocktail dress, scoffed. His white bauble earrings swayed. "This old thing? Just pulled it out of the back of my closet. No biggie."

Father Mulcahy, eyes wide in confusion, cleared his throat as he looked over Klinger's attire. "I am still not entirely used to your scheme, Klinger, but I must commend you for making such bold choices. You are certainly the brightest person here tonight."

Klinger's gloved hand came to rest on his chest. "Thank you, Father. That really means a lot."

"No trouble, my son." Mulcahy took a gulp of champagne as he watched Klinger disappear into the crowd. He reached for another glass when his first turned up empty.

With a laugh, Virginia squeezed Mulcahy's hand. "You've got your hands full around here, don't you, Father?"

"There's much here I wasn't trained for in the seminary. But it's a good challenge!"

"Virginia! Oh, there you are!" Margaret emerged through the bodies, shadowed as ever by Frank. She wrapped her arms tight around Virginia's neck in a surprise embrace. Her blonde waves smelled clean and her breath smelled sharp with alcohol. When she pulled back, her brow was tight. "Where's Hawkeye? I haven't seen him or Trapper."

Mulcahy answered before Virginia could, his voice high with interest. "Neither have made an appearance thus far. I wonder if they're coming at all?"

"One could only hope," Frank muttered.

Virginia schooled her features, praying disappointment didn't creep through her mask. She lifted a hand to adjust her hair. She shouldn't feel the need to impress Hawkeye; making herself the object of his desire again should be the furthest thing from her mind. Yet it was on the forefront, no matter how hard she tried. Traitorous heart.

From atop a stool, Henry clinked against his champagne glass. Red circles already colored his cheeks. He smiled wide, innocent and at ease. "Hullo!" He laughed when no one paused their conversation. "A-yo! Listen up, folks!"

Radar's sharp whistle brought the company to a quiet.

"Thanks, Radar," Henry said. Then, clearing his throat, he addressed the party-goers. "Wow, this place sure did turn out swell, didn't it? Let's give Radar and Klinger a hand for putting this all together."

A cacophony of cheers and applause drowned out the record player. Scarlet blush spread across Radar's face; he edged closer to the wall. Klinger shook his self-clasped hands on either side of his head in victory.

Motioning for the noise to settle, Henry continued, his tone gone serious. "Now, we've invited you here to have fun and relax and I expect you to do just that. You make me proud every day with how hard you work and you deserve a break. Even you, Klinger." Once the chuckles had died off, Henry sighed. His eyes glistened with tears. "I really couldn't be stuck here with a better troupe, that's for damn sure."

From the back of the crowd, a familiar voice broke the emotional silence. "When does the blubbering stop and the dancing begin? I've got a hot date!"

Dozens of heads swiveled at once, craning to spot Hawkeye amongst the mass. He wasn't hard to find. He and Trapper, some of the tallest men in the outfit, stood inches above the rest of the company. Virginia's heart somersaulted in her chest when she spotted him.

"Okay, okay. I've said my piece. Enjoy yourselves!" Henry hopped down from the stool, tripping as he went, and gestured for the music to resume its original volume. "In the Mood" began its swinging melody and couples drifted outside to the dancefloor.

"Come on, Father, dance with me!"

Margaret dropped Frank's hand and reached for Mulcahy, grinning as the music swelled. Her vibrant red dress blinded beside Mulcahy's black attire. With a muffled agreement, Mulcahy allowed himself to be dragged into the crowd and across the floor. Frank huffed and stalked to a back corner.

For a moment, Virginia stood alone. The edge of the bar dug along her spine, and her smile faltered as she watched her cohorts whisk around the room.

"Can I get you a drink?"

She turned, expecting to see her husband, but was met with the boyish grin of Charlie Clark instead. She stood tall, her palms gone hot. A drink, indeed.

"I'm fine. Thank you, though." She curled her fingers around the empty glass in her hand. The cool sweat of melted ice ran down her wrist.

Charlie leaned against the bar, all nonchalance and ego. "You look—"

"Don't," she said. Her head snapped to the right, hard enough to hear a pop.

He leaned back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"I'm trying my best to patch up my marriage, Charlie. Really, I am."

"Didn't seem that way a few months ago." At Virginia's dark stare, he sighed, his shoulders dropping. "That was low. I know you love him." Swiping his hands across his trousers, he offered a handshake. "I only want to part as friends, Captain."

Virginia swallowed hard. Father Mulcahy's words—_you are more than your mistakes_—flitted across her mind. Was she? She was no better than Hawkeye now, another servicewoman fallen prey to infidelity during the horrors of war. Yet she couldn't shake the guilt. She wondered if this was how her husband felt. If this is what drove him to bring her a mug of coffee every morning, or wear her wedding band around his neck, or hold her steady when bombs fell too close. Guilt drove her to mend his laundry, to save him the good parts of dinner, to switch shifts with him when she knew he hadn't slept well, despite her own exhaustion. Guilt drove her—

No.

Love drove her.

She gasped.

Hurriedly, she wished Charlie a farewell, assuring him she held no ill will. Then she brushed past him and elbowed her way into the crowd.

"Hawkeye!" She saw him on the other side, lingering in the doorway. At her call, he pushed off the wall and searched for her voice. She waved a hand high above her head. "Hawkeye!"

Their eyes met, and he smiled. She surged forward until she broke through. A cool night breeze swept along her legs as she stepped outside. The hem of her dress rustled.

"There you are," he said. "I was beginning to wonder if someone made off with you."

Instead of feeling a pang of guilt, Virginia smiled. She reached for his arm. "Dance with me."

He stilled—either uncertain or surprised, she couldn't tell which. He looked almost military in his uniform, what with his hair smoothed and parted, his jaw shaven. However, the gleam in his eye kept him one step away from tip-top-shape. She loved him for it.

"Dance with me," she repeated.

The current song melded in to something slower and softer. She didn't know the tune. Slipping her hand into his, she pulled him to the middle of the floor. All around couples moved to the beat of the music. Radar waltzed by, his arms wrapped around Kellye's waist.

Hawkeye and Virginia found their embrace of old: He held her tight, his cheek pressed against her head. She felt his chest rise and fall against her collarbones, felt his hand skim from her shoulder blades to the base of her spine. He smelled familiar, like the Maine sky after a hard rain and the lilac soap in their kitchen sink. A sigh of relief parted her lips, and her eyes fluttered shut.

This was more than she had hoped for.

They swayed back and forth, their steps small and circular. Around and around and around, falling deeper and deeper into a sense of isolation. The music faded; conversation disappeared. He was her all, and for once, she was his all.

"Virginia?" he mumbled against her hair.

"Hmm…"

"That night in December… when you said you were cold…"

Virginia left the question to hang, considering, before she said, "I wasn't really cold."

"But after—"

She pulled back, tilted her head to look up at him. "I had just entered the middle of a war. I wanted my husband. Can you blame me for that?"

"No—no, I can't." He looked away, wincing, and she knew he was thinking of the nurses he'd tried to find solace in before she'd arrived. She squeezed his arm, and he brought his attention back. To her surprise, his eyes glimmered with tears. "Don't ever think I could forget you."

One hand brushed the flyaway hairs from her cheek. "You look… beautiful."

Virginia's heart raced, but she kept her voice light. "Better than Klinger?"

Hawkeye hesitated. His brow furrowed in thought, and he cast his eyes toward the man in question. "Mmm… I'm not sure about that. Klinger may take the cake tonight."

Laughing, Virginia rose to her toes as she slipped her arms around his neck. He wrapped her tighter in the circle of himself. They stood, frozen, oblivious to the rest of the world. She couldn't remember the last time he'd held her with such tenderness and love.

Untangling himself, he quirked an eyebrow as he looked her over. Heat rose to her cheeks. "I'm going to kiss you now, Mrs. Pierce," he said.

Had he said such a thing a day earlier, she would have slapped him across the face. Tonight, however, she threw any reservations she had to the wayside.

He pressed his lips to hers before she could respond. A memory of their last kiss—at the train station, his draft card in her hand, her heart on her sleeve—came to mind. Back then, she'd thought that was the best kiss they'd ever shared: passionate, honest, almost feverish. Apparently, it could be outdone.

In the back of her mind, she was aware of the whistles and catcalls as their display of affection drew attention. But as Hawkeye's lips moved over hers and as he held her tighter, tighter, against himself, she couldn't be bothered to feel embarrassed. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears and a low pounding spread through her middle. If she wasn't careful…

She pulled away first. Breathless, she whispered, "We have an audience."

Hawkeye, heavy-lidded, took stock of those surrounding them. He smirked. "Dirty rascals." Arm around Virginia's waist, he crushed her against his side then addressed the crowd. "If you're gonna keep watching, I'm gonna start charging. Fifty cents for every thirty seconds. Virginia, bring your lips back here. We're gonna be rich!"

Another jive began and their audience dissipated, entranced by the music now rather than what very well could be another fleeting company romance.

Hawkeye grabbed Virginia's hand, his fingers tight around her palm. He pulled her through the throng, weaving in and out of couples with expert ease, until they were safely shrouded in darkness on the other side of the building. Moonlight hit every angle of his face in just the right way. He breathed hard, his eyes roaming her body, and little puffs of white billowed from his mouth.

Before she could stop herself, Virginia pulled him close by the lapels of his jacket. His lips crashed into hers, and they were all arms and hands and bruised lips. Nary a thought or tumbleweed crossed Virginia's mind. All she could think—all she could _feel_ was Hawkeye's frenzied touch, the cadence of his breath in her ear, and the sensation of his mouth on her neck.

She back against the wall, the cool metal shocking against her hot skin. Her hands searched for a proper hold on his shoulders, and her eyes dipped back in her head. She bit hard on her lip to keep from groaning aloud as he worked his way from her neck to the back of her ear.

"I think," she managed between breaths, "we should find somewhere a little more private if this is going to go any further."

Hawkeye mumbled something unintelligible.

Virginia pushed him away, forced his eyes to meet hers. His lips were swollen, his pupils round with desire. "This is not the time for al fresco." The edge on her voice was sharp.

At her suggestion, a lopsided grin overtook his face. "I'm game to try anything once," he said, leaning forward to capture her lips again.

She tilted her head to the side before he could. "Hawkeye."

He seemed to swallow a sigh. But then he brushed his hand across her cheek again and he squeezed her hip. "You sure about this, slugger? I don't want you to—"

In lieu of an answer, she kissed him again—hard and powerful. She'd never been more sure of anything in all her life.

.::.

The following morning found her wrapped in his arms, buried beneath an itchy blanket in the back of the supply room. A crack of sunlight fell across her face and pulled her from a deep, dreamless sleep. As she stretched, she reveled in the deliciously sore feeling along her legs and core. Goodness, but she'd forgotten what he was like in the heat of the moment. A shiver ran down her spine at the thought.

Twisting, she studied his face, illuminated by a single beam of light. He appeared to be dead to the world, completely at ease in his slumber. She wanted to brush her thumb along his forehead, the build of his nose, the stubble on his jaw. She wanted to savor every moment and every memory because, of course, what happened the night before couldn't happen again—not unless he was ready and willing to be husband to her and her alone. And until he made his intentions clear, she should keep her heart out of the game.

She sat up and slipped out from under his arm. Immediately, a sense of loss flooded her, but she pushed it aside as she set about tugging on Klinger's dress. It was early yet, but she would need to shower and change before breakfast lest anyone see her sneaking away from the supply room.

Hawkeye's sleep-laden voice stopped her cold as she twisted the doorknob. "Where are you going?"

She released her hold on the knob and stepped back. "I was—" She sighed, pushed a stray curl behind her ear. "I was leaving."

With an eyebrow lifted, he sat up. The blanket pooled around his lap. He looked so pale in the morning sunlight. Her heart lurched. How she loved him…

"Usually, I'm the one making an exit on the sly." He patted the spot beside him and, reluctantly, she took it. "What's eating you? Was it not good? I know—I'm rusty maybe with almost half a year off the market but—"

"No! No, it's not that." Virginia looked away as blush highlighted her face. He chuckled, and she cleared her throat. "It's just… I didn't mean for that to happen..."

He was quiet before saying, "I didn't want to take advantage of the situation, but, God, Beth, when I saw you in that dress"—He reached out to run his fingertips along her bare shoulders.—"I about lost it then and there."

She leveled him a pointed look. "Hawkeye, are you…" She stopped herself, cast her eyes to the wood floor. After drawing in a long breath, she looked at him again. "I think we should focus on being friends."

There was no mistaking the pain that crossed his face. His lips thinned and a shadow seemed to fall over his brow. Virginia rose to her feel. A splinter dug into the back of her heel.

"I want to be friends, Ben," she said. "I'm tired of walking around unsure if I can come to you with my problems. I trust your judgment more than anyone else, and I've had a rough go of it not being able to ask you for help. And more than that, I miss you. So, I want to be friends again before we go any further, before you decide if what we have is worth it."

"Are you saying you've forgiven me?"

"I don't know," she said. "But I want to be friends."

"You've said that."

"And you haven't answered."

Hawkeye, sighing, rose to his feet, blanket wrapped snug around his waist. He held her shoulders in his hands. "I can never apologize enough for the hurt I've put you through, and it's been a hell seeing you here, experiencing the same hell I'm living in. But I think I've told you a hundred times—as your mother has, too: I'm no good for you. Damn, though, if you aren't good for me."

Virginia's stomach twisted. She bit the inside of her cheek. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying friends." He offered his hand. "Friends."

"And in the future?"

He swallowed hard. "I don't know."

"Fine then." She sucked in a gust of air, suddenly tired. "Friends."

They shook hands, silent, and Virginia left the supply room with a stew of emotions in her belly. Her head pounded, her heart ached. She wished she'd never volunteered with the Army. Some part of her wished she'd never met Benjamin Franklin Pierce, and she certainly wished she'd never fallen into his arms the night before—no matter the sweet memories she would replay night after night.

What she needed now was a good shower, a hot cup of coffee, and to carry on.

"Finally! Virginia, there you are." An unmistakable twang broke through her thoughts.

Virginia stopped walking and turned to see Trapper jogging toward her. His curls bobbed in the breeze. He jerked his thumb toward the hospital as he drew closer.

"Henry wants to see us," he said. "He's got a job for us. Something about going to the front."


	14. Chapter 11

_This who we are—a product of war. _

_MASH Unit 4077. March, 1951._

Virginia squirmed in the straight-back wooden chair. Having changed as quickly as possible into her uniform and followed Trapper to Henry's office, she'd had little time to dream up what possible assignment Henry could have in store. Now, while she waited for Henry to show, her mind churned with all the possibilities. Could she be transferred to another MASH unit? Shipped home? Worse yet—have her bunk moved to The Swamp now that the Special Forces were gone? She shuddered at the thought.

To her left, Trapper sat with his legs sprawled out, an orange Hawaiian shirt hanging loose around his shoulders. He picked at his teeth with a toothpick.

"Do you know why we're here?" she asked. The chair squeaked as she twisted to gauge his response. He gave none other than a noncommittal shrug.

"You and Hawk have fun last night?" There was nothing sarcastic about his tone, but Virginia couldn't help and take a defensive position.

She leaned back, arms folded over her chest. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Trapper moved his attention from his teeth to his nailbeds. He pushed along his cuticles and dug underneath his nails. "He didn't come back to homestead last night, that's all."

Virginia turned her nose skyward. "I don't see how that's any of your business."

He threw a lazy, almost smug glance her way. "So, he was with you?"

"Again, I don't—"

"Sorry to keep you waiting, kids." Henry ambled into the office and took his spot on the other side of the desk. His eyes were red and tired, his fishing hat pulled low to block the sun. "Got tied up in the latrine."

"Have a good time at the party, Henry?"

Henry blanched. "Don't talk about it." At Trapper's laughter, Henry shot him a dark look then seemed to think better of exerting the effort. He reached up to rub his forehead. "I don't want to talk about it."

"That's just fine, Coronel." Virginia kicked the back of Trapper's shin in an attempt to silence his amusement. It only turned Trapper's laughter into muffled chuckles behind his hand. "What is it you wanted to talk about, sir?"

At first, Henry gave her a blank stare. He blinked and Virginia swore she could see a tumbleweed blow across his empty head. She was about to ask again when he snapped his fingers and recognition sparked in his eyes.

"Oh yeah, I remember." He rifled across his scattered desk. Coming up empty handed, he shouted, "Radar, could you bring me that directive—"

Radar entered the room and finished the sentence as Henry continued to state his request. "—directive from General Baker? Yes, sir. Here it is, sir." He was gone just as soon as he came.

Henry pulled a letter out of its envelope, read it, then looked up. "Do you want the short explanation or the long one?"

In unison, Virginia and Trapper gave their answers.

"Short."

"Long."

Virginia frowned once she registered Trapper's answer. She stared at him. "What do you mean short?"

Trapper stared right back. "What do you mean long? I've got things to do!"

"So, you're telling me you'd rather go into an assignment blind?"

"Look, if there's some army mumbo-jumbo in that letter, I'm not gonna understand or care. But since Henry's gonna make me do it anyway then I'll save myself the effort of trying to wrap my head around it."

"That's not only idiotic but dangerous."

Trapper shrugged again, his grin lopsided. "Work harder not smarter, sweetheart."

Virginia huffed then turned to Henry. "Give us an average length explanation if you can."

"Oh, Henry's great at average!"

"Shut up, McIntyre." With blush rising to his forehead, Henry focused on the letter in his hand. He hemmed-and-hawed before raising his eyes a fraction. His voice was plaintive. "Basically, I've got to send two doctors up to the front. There's an aid station that lost two men in a recent attack, and they've asked for a little help. It's only temporary—three weeks at the most—but I volunteered the two of you."

Virginia couldn't stop her jaw from dropping. She held up a hand in confusion. "I'm sorry—you've done what?" The wheels in her brain struggled to comprehend his words.

Trapper didn't give Henry the opportunity to answer. He leaned forward, eyes sharp and angry. "Just how frontlines is this aid station, Henry?" His jaw tightened. A muscle on his chin twitched as he waited.

"It's about as frontlines at it gets," Henry said, his voice apologetic.

"Damn it, Henry!" Trapper slammed his hand on the edge of the desk. Virginia jumped, and Henry's face screwed tight at the sound. "I've got kids!"

"Don't you think I know that? Geez, what would you have me do, McIntyre? Pierce can't go up—he's chief surgeon—and Frank's downright boneheaded. That leaves you and Virginia." Henry pulled his fishing cap off and ran a hand through his hair. "I made do with what I have."

"So, we're expendable to you? Is that it?" Trapper rose from his seat. Anger turned his face red and his knuckles white. "You can make do without us, but not Pierce or Burns."

"No, of course not!" Henry's eyes darted to Virginia, as if searching for a way out, then back to Trapper. "But you can handle yourself up there. You work well under pressure."

"And me, Henry?" Virginia spoke up. "Why'd you pick me?"

"You're a good nurse and good surgeon. You can wear two hats at once if need be. That's the kind of help they need."

There was a pause. The magnitude of the assignment—practically a whole month at the front—hung in the room like a storm cloud ready to burst. Virginia nibbled on her pinky nail; Trapper shook his head back and forth in disbelief.

Perhaps in a last-ditch effort, Henry drove home the guilt. He kept his eyes trained on the desk, as if he were embarrassed to make the hard decision for them. "People are dying when they don't need to because there's not enough help up there…" He left the implication hanging: if they refused, any unnecessary deaths at the aid station would be on their conscience.

It was Trapper who broke first. He sighed and reached for a glass tumbler, motioning to a jar of whiskey behind Henry's shoulder. "When do we leave?"

.::.

Three days later, Virginia and Trapper were loading a Jeep just after dawn. A wash of red-orange light turned the compound hazy with humidity and the promise of rain, and a small crowd had gathered to see the pair off, nurses wrapped in brightly colored kimonos, officers and enlisted men in the tried-and-true pale army green. An unmistakable sense of worry permeated the group. No one voiced their fears or apprehension, but everyone was thinking the same thing: There was a good chance the departing doctors may not return in one piece.

For his part, Trapper played the same old game. He joked, wore a wide grin, and stuffed the ridiculous straw hat on his head. He looked like a man ready for a Sunday afternoon tailgate rather than a doctor on his way to an active combat zone. Virginia, on the other hand, was nauseous. She'd woken with bad stomach pains, but knew dinner the night before was not to blame. As she dropped her pack in the back of the Jeep, she couldn't help but wince at the trembling in her hand. She was afraid, to say the least.

"I think that's everything." Trapper tightened a strap once more and stepped away from the Jeep. He turned to Henry and held out his hand. "See ya later, boss."

Henry, seemingly uncomfortable or guilty or both, wouldn't look Trapper in the eye as he shook his head. "Yeah—see ya."

"Here, I want you to take this."

Virginia turned to see Margaret offering a small, single shot handgun. It was silver and engraved on the side with Margaret's initials. "I can't take that," Virginia said, shaking her head.

"No, I want you to." Margaret pushed it forward. "Please."

Biting her tongue, Virginia took the gun and tucked it in her waistband. It dug into her hip and increased her anxiety tenfold, but if it made Margaret feel better, she would keep it. She hadn't promised to use it.

"Take care of yourself."

"Don't find another roommate while I'm gone."

The women shared a smile. Virginia squeezed Margaret's arm then stepped to Hawkeye who had his head bent close to Trapper. Before she could reach him, a hand grabbed her elbow.

"Take this, too." Father Mulcahy held a black leather-bound Bible in his hand. It was the size of his palm, the edges of the pages dyed red.

Virginia slid the Bible in her pocket and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. "Thank you," she said.

Mulcahy made the sign of the cross before her, his face somber. "God be with you."

"Well, look at you, all grown up and ready to fly the nest." Hawkeye smiled down at her, though she noted the edges of worry around his eyes. He held the back of her neck in one hand and pointed at her with the other. "I expect you to be home before midnight, young lady."

Virginia should have known he would play her departure off with a casual joke—he was ready with a wisecrack no matter the time of day or occasion. Yet the gravity of her endeavor and the uncertainty of what could happen made his jokes seem ill-placed. She rolled her eyes in response, saying nothing, and he seemed to take the hint. He dropped his hold on her neck, his voice gone intense.

"You know I would trade places with you if I could."

"And let you have all the fun?" She shook her head. "No, this is for me to do."

He pulled her flush against his chest, and she could hear his heart beating hard against his ribcage. The corner of her eyes stung with tears but she refused to let them fall. Pulling back, she brushed imaginary dust from his shoulder.

"Hold down the fort while we're gone."

"Let me kiss you before you go."

Virginia untangled herself from his arms and slid into the seat beside Trapper. "Save it for when I get back."

Jaw tight, Hawkeye nodded. "I'll hold you to that."

The engine started with a sputter and Trapper threw the Jeep into gear. He lifted his hand in a final wave before pressing hard on the gas. Virginia lurched to the side, but kept her eyes on the compound—on Hawkeye—until the 4077 disappeared from view. She twisted and faced the open road, then.

Beside her, Trapper gripped the steering wheel tight. "Hi-ho, off to war we go!" There was no humor in his voice now.

* * *

**A/N: **_Shorter chapter this week before it gets down and dirty. Send me your thoughts/predictions!_


	15. Chapter 12

**A/N: **_I will be gone for the next two weeks so this is more than likely the last update until the end of the month. Just a heads-up!_

* * *

_We were meant for so much more. _

_MASH Unit 4077. March, 1951._

"Glory to Dartmouth! Loyal, we sing. Now, all together, make the echoes ring for Dartmouth!" Trapper beat his fist against the steering wheel in time with the tune. "Fight, team, fight!"

The Jeep flew down the dirt road, pebbles and rocks kicking up in its wake. The heavy helmet on Virginia's head rattled against her skull. Somewhere in the distance, a bomb exploded and the sound reverberated over the hills. Jostling in her seat, Virginia rooted in her pack, searching for a safe place to put the handgun from Margaret and Bible from the Father. The pack was overfull, however, and she settled on leaving the Bible in her breast pocket and the handgun tucked in her waistband.

Trapper continued singing. "Come stand up men and sing for Dartmouth. Cheer when the team in green appears."

Virginia rolled her eyes. "Can you take nothing seriously?" she asked.

With a sidelong glance, he smirked and resumed with a deeper, more reverent song. He held one hand over his heart and used the other to skid around a sharp turn. Virginia held on to the side of the car, her already-nauseous stomach churning.

"Dear old Dartmouth, give a rouse for the College on the hill, or the Lone Pine above her, and the loyal ones who love her. Give a rouse, give a rouse, with a will!"

"Really, Trapper, we're headed to an active war zone and you're singing your college anthems." On another winding turn, bile rose in her throat. She pushed it back with a cough.

"Feelin' okay, princess?" He pushed on the gas pedal harder. The engine groaned but obeyed, and the Jeep surged over a tall rise.

"I feel like I may vomit."

"Hold on for a bit longer then you can vomit all you want. Only don't spray all over my boots. I just had them professionally cleaned." He shifted and withdrew a folded map form his back pocket. With a flick of the wrist, he passed it to her. "Open that."

She opened the crinkled map dutifully and spread it across her lap. "What am I looking for?"

"Two hills—the aid station is location somewhere around them. One hill is called Snow Mountain, the other is called Sunrise Hill. The station should be closer to Snow Mountain."

Virginia moved her finger across the map as she located each hill. "In Lilly Valley, do you think?"

"If that's what it's called, that's where we're going. How far is it?"

"Fifty miles maybe."

Trapper leaned back and loosened his grip on the wheel. "We've got time."

They drove on in silence for several minutes. The rumbling of the tires on uneven roads and distant shelling became the lullaby threatening to pull Virginia to sleep. She hadn't rested well the night before. Apprehension and fear of the unknown stole the last peaceful night she was promised before a month on the front. However, falling asleep as they drew closer and closer to enemy lines did not sound at all peaceful either.

She forced herself to sit straighter in her seat and make conversation. Despite her differences with Trapper, he would be her sole connection to whatever life the 4077 had offered once in the heart of battle. She would not count him a friend, but didn't want him indifferent to her all the same.

"What was Hawkeye telling you before we left?"

Trapper took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot her a surprised look. "You really want to know?" She nodded. "He was tellin' me I better like the idea of becoming a monk if I bring you back with even a scratch on your head."

"You don't have to protect me. I can take care of myself."

"Your husband doesn't seem to agree."

In an effort to move the conversation away from herself and Hawkeye's apparent lack of trust in her abilities, she asked, "Aren't you afraid?"

Trapper sobered for the first time since she'd greeted him at sunrise. A dark cloud crossed his face, his eyes narrowed. "Of course."

"Then why are you singing? Making jokes?"

"The same reason Hawk does," he said. "It's all I can do to keep from going crazy."

The rest of the drive was spent in a semi-companionable silence. Virginia mulled over Trapper's words, wondering how she kept from going crazy in this place. She didn't use humor; she knew that well enough. Though she could word spar with Hawkeye until the sun went down, she'd rather curl up with her books or garden alongside the house in Maine than joke. Perhaps, if she returned to the 4077, she would plant a garden to help ease her mind after a stressful day.

If she returned…

The shelling grew harder and louder as they drew closer to the aid station. Lilly Valley, nestled behind American-occupied Snow Mountain and opposite North Korean-occupied Sunrise Hill, was anything but a lily strewn valley. If any flowers had once grown throughout the wide-open field, they had long since been destroyed. Both hills and the valley between were nothing but blood-clotted dirt, shattered shells, and bullet casings now. The smell of gunpowder and blood hung in the air. A ramshackle building, hastily thrown together and covered by camouflage, came into view. A red cross painted on the side could mean only one thing: they'd made it. Trapper pulled the Jeep alongside the building and cut the engine. No sound came from within the station, and an unsettling silence descended in the valley.

"It's quiet," Virginia said.

Trapper stepped out of the Jeep, his eyes scanning the yard outside the building. "The shelling's stopped." He hesitated before unbuckling a strap on the pile of supplies in the back. "I don't know if that's good or bad."

"Bad, I'd guess."

"Here, take this." He handed her a small box filled with empty syringes. "I'll go check inside. You wait here. Don't move from this spot, and be prepared to fight if something tries to take our stuff."

Virginia moved to stand at the bed of the Jeep, while Trapper, hunched over to make his tall frame smaller, inched toward the front door. He peered inside one of the small windows then gave her a shrug. Her grip on the handle of Margaret's gun tightened when he nudged the door open with the toe of his boot. With a command to wait five minutes before coming after him, Trapper slipped inside.

Casting her eyes over the open valley before her, Virginia shifted on her feet. The wind whistled in the branches of the tree covering the aid station in shade. Smoke still lingered over the valley, but whatever fighting they'd heard on their drive had stopped. If she squinted hard enough, she could make out lump-like outlines on the ground. Her jaw tightened. Bodies, no doubt. She looked away, over her shoulder, wondering where the medical staff had gone.

"Stand down. It's a-okay, princess."

She turned at Trapper's relaxed voice. He ducked his head to avoid the doorframe as he exited the building. A squat soldier, red in the face and portly, followed, wiping his bloody hands on his surgical gown. Relief eased some of the tension in Virginia's soldiers, and she released her hold on the gun.

"Colonel Cleaver, this is Captain Pierce," Trapper said as he pulled a box labeled "linens" from the Jeep. "Watch out—she's a handful."

Virginia ignored the comment and offered her hand. "Virginia," she said. "Pleased to meet you, sir."

Colonel Cleaver held up his blood-covered ones and chuckled. "I won't dirty you just yet. The name is Anderson Cleaver. You can call me either or nothing or whatever you so choose. Makes no difference to me so long as you do your work." He nodded to a chest of supplies. "Those antibiotics, penicillin, that kind of stuff?"

Virginia reached for the narrow chest, nodding. "Yes, sir."

"Follow me inside, then. There's lives to be saved." He hobbled toward the door on bowed legs, arms swinging like an ape.

Upon entering the dimly lit building, Virginia was surprised to see the entire aid station was barely the size of mess tent back home. One half of the room had been partitioned off to create a pseudo-operating room, while the other half housed four cots and a meager array of supplies. Two of the cots were occupied by men groaning in pain. A soldier shuffled by, his boots stirring the dirt on the floor, as he went to the patient's side. Cleaver ordered a lingering soldier to finish unloading the Jeep then he doused his hands in alcohol and set to work on the leg of a wounded boy. He spoke as he worked.

"I can't tell you how grateful I am you've come up here. We lost two good doctors a week ago, and it's been hell trying to catch up." He grabbed a piece of four-oh silk and began stitching the leg. "John, would you finish up on this ole guy? The fighting for today has stopped, thank goodness, and I need to rest my aching feet before I fall down."

Trapper squeezed past Cleaver after washing his hands and took up his spot on the operating table. Virginia, unsure of her place, stood in the middle of the room, waiting for instructions. She didn't have to wait long.

"Tidy that room up, will you, Mrs. Pierce?"

Virginia couldn't help but arch a brow as Cleaver ambled past her, shrugging off his blood-soaked scrubs in slow movements. He belched under his breath.

"I can't remember the last time that waiting room was properly scrubbed," he continued. "We don't have much time for things like that. Thank God you're here."

A snicker came from the operating table. Virginia skewered Trapper with a glare, her hands curling to fists at her sides. She kept her mouth shut, though, and obeyed orders. It wouldn't do to make a poor first impression. Henry trusted her enough to represent the 4077; she wouldn't let him down—even if every part of her wanted to teach Cleaver a lesson.

By sundown, Virginia had done her fair share of work. She'd swept and mopped the floor, unpacked and organized the supplies from the 4077, tended to the two men waiting for transport, and assisted Trapper in amputating a wounded man's arm. Her feet ached, her hands had splinters, and her pride was wounded. With no mess tent or active kitchen staff, dinner was beans, a few pieces of cheese, and bread. Virginia took her serving last. She dropped to the floor, pressing her back against the weak wall, and sighed. Across the room, Trapper ate alongside Cleaver and the four other male staff. She had yet to bump into a fellow female nurse. At this point, she doubted she would.

"Mind if I sit?" She looked up into the dark eyes of a lithe, black soldier. She scooted over, and he sat down. "He worked you pretty hard today."

"Who?"

"Cleaver."

"He's not what I expected."

The soldier shifted against the hard floor and dropped the cheese in his mouth. "Your friend certainly likes him."

"Trapper? He likes mostly everyone—especially people who make his life easier." She pushed the beans across her plate and watched as liquid drained and stained the cheese. "I'm Virginia."

"Reggie."

"How long have you been here?"

"This aid station? Oh, about six months. Seen lots of your kind filter in and out. We're always losing people, always borrowing people." He paused, shaking his head. "This is a hell of a conflict."

Virginia snorted. "Conflict…"

"Reggie, boy!"

Reggie's head snapped up at the sound of his name in Cleaver's mouth. Virginia swore she saw his lips curl. He staggered to his feet, leaving his clean plate on the floor beside him.

"Yeah, boss?"

"Take Mrs. Pierce out to the field and get those bodies. Can't let 'em stay there for the enemy to take. Gotta make sure we send our boys home, right?" He clapped Reggie on the shoulder then resumed his lively conversation with Trapper.

Reggie looked over his shoulder and jerked his head toward the door. "Let's go before he gets mad."

Rising to her feet, Virginia struggled to understand. "You mean we're—"

"Getting dead bodies, yeah." He pulled on a heavy jacket and strapped on his helmet. "Night means it's safer."

Virginia shuddered as she refitted her jacket and helmet. It seemed she and Reggie were the ones relegated to taking care of the aid station's dirty work. As she made her way past the table of relaxing doctors, she resisted the urge to slap Trapper across the back of his smug head. He ignored her departure, laughing at an obscene joke.

Outside in the cool of the night, Virginia stuck close to Reggie's side. Crickets chirped in the tall grasses on the edges of the field. Overhead the moon illuminated their path to the dead. They were quiet as they made their trek, both for necessity and out of respect. The enemy could be lurking anywhere, ready to shoot or take another captive.

"There's one." Reggie's sudden whisper gave Virginia a start. She squinted in the dark until she made out the prone body of a soldier. Reggie squatted alongside the body and rolled him over. A cloud of flies burst from the wound on the soldier's neck. "Take his arms."

Again, Virginia did as she was told. As a pair, she and Reggie dragged the bodies to the side wall of the aid station. It was hard work, depressing work, dirty work. Four more times, they ventured into the field and retrieved bodies—or what was left of them. An hour later, Reggie wiped his hands along his pants. He dropped a tarp over the five bodies. In the morning, a helicopter would pick them up to be taken home.

"That's it for tonight. If we keep making noise for much longer, somebody could hear us," he said.

Virginia followed him inside, sure her eyes were about to burst with tears or strained blood vessels. In the effort of the day, she'd had little time to truly appreciate where she was. But now, when the aid station and the field was quiet, when Cleaver and his men were sleeping on the floor, their snores filling the room, she thought she might break. Instead, she washed her hands and face, undid her braid, and stumbled to the cot provided for her alongside Trapper. The men here already thought her weak and useless; she wouldn't prove them right by crying herself to sleep.

Trapper lay on his back, eyes closed in sleep. He stirred when she put her head down and opened an eye. "You worked hard today," he whispered.

Virginia turned to her side, her back facing him. "Yes, I suppose I did."

"You'd make Hawkeye proud."

"And you? What would he say to you?"

He was quiet then said, "He'd tell me to do better."

"Then why don't you?"

"I will… tomorrow."

The sound of crickets and snoring and faraway shelling nearly lulled her to sleep. But then Trapper put a hand on her shoulder. She jumped out of her blank thoughts.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Instead of responding, he squeezed her arm. "Tomorrow, princess, I promise."


	16. Chapter 13

**A/N: **_Warning for scenes of war violence and injuries._

* * *

_We're in this together. _

_MASH Unit 4077. April, 1951._

Two weeks passed. Virginia could remember nothing of consequence from her days at the front. She woke early after a fitful night of rest, she mindlessly trudged through the bodies deposited at her table, she avoided Cleaver, she ate little, she went to bed. Every day the same. For his part, Trapper kept his promise. He treated her as an equal and spoke his mind when Cleaver took his orders a step too far. She was thankful for his companionship; he was a piece of home.

On her sixteenth day at the front, Virginia found herself scrubbing the medical instruments during a moment of quiet. Since waking, she'd stitched up eleven boys and pronounced four dead. If she checked her watch, she knew it was not yet ten in the morning. So much destruction and she had yet to eat breakfast. She shuddered and scrubbed a scalpel a little harder.

"Mind if I join you?" Trapper sat across from her without waiting for an answer. Still wearing his morning scrubs, blood stains covered his chest. Heavy bags underlined his eyes. "Damn, it's a hot one." He reached for a blood-soaked instrument and began dunking it in water.

Virginia shifted in her seat, feeling her legs slick with sweat. "I think I'm beginning to smell like the dead," she said.

"You're startin' to look it, too."

With a groan, Virginia flicked water over the bowl. She could not resist the edges of a smile, however.

"Got a letter from the seventy-seven today," he continued.

Her attention perked, and her hands stilled in the murky water. "Did you? From who?"

"Just the Father. He said they're up to their elbows. Lots has been going on: change in personnel and—?"

"Change in personnel?" She sat straight, her heart thudding. "What does that mean?"

Trapper only shrugged. "I don't know. He didn't say."

Looking away, Virginia wondered aloud. "I wonder if Hawkeye…"

"Don't get yourself in a tizzy." Trapper stood from his seat, tugging her along when shelling began outside the station. "I'm sure he's still there."

For the next hour, Virginia worked alongside Trapper as casualty after casualty entered the aid station. The shelling continued, too close for comfort. The foundation of the aid station shook with each blast, forcing Virginia to throw herself over her patient's open wounds. Dust and debris within a wound would cause only more problems than a wounded soldier already had. She had long since forgotten what it was like to work in normal conditions, even by the 4077's standards. Chaos was all she knew now.

"McIntyre! Pierce!" Cleaver waded his way through the waiting soldiers, his ample stomach swaying. "I need the two of you outside."

Cleaver's order didn't stop Trapper from continuing his work on a newly legless soldier. "You what?" He dropped his needle with a muttered curse. Virginia handed him another.

"I need y'all both to get your fannies suited and out on the field! We lost our stretcher boys, and time's a-wastin'!"

"You can't be serious."

Cleaver leveled Virginia a dark look. "I am perfectly serious, Mrs. Pierce. Now high-tail it into gear!"

"You can't send her out there!" Trapper motioned for the soldier to be taken away as he shrugged on his jacket and helmet.

"Yes, I can!"

"Yes, he can!"

Cleaver and Virginia shared a stare when their words, spoken in unison, fell on Trapper's deaf ears. He continued protesting.

"Virginia, can you even lift a stretcher with a full-grown man?"

"Of course I can," she lied. "Why the hell are you adamant about me not helping?"

"It's too dangerous. There's got to be hundreds of bombs falling down out there. Plus, your husband would kill me if anything happened."

"That's why nothing will happen." Virginia reached for her own jacket and helmet. "We haven't got time to argue about it. There are people dying out there."

"For once I agree with the lady." Cleaver grabbed Trapper's shoulder and shoved him toward the door. "Get out there, for God's sake! And don't come back without any wounded."

.::.

The battlefield was unlike anything Virginia had pictured it to be. Before she'd volunteered, she hadn't given thought to what true battle was. Though she knew it must be horrible, she rarely allowed herself to give it a passing thought. Only when she'd arrived in Korea, there wasn't a day that passed in which the aftermath of battle crossed her path. But actually standing on the ground where men lost their lives to brutal violence… it put a whole new meaning to her position as a surgeon.

Virginia stood aghast, frozen, as she surveyed the valley beneath her. Bodies littered the graceful rises and falls of the landscape. A thick cloud of smoke obscured her vision across the field, but she could just make out the shadows of the enemy reloading their guns on the other side. Goodness, they were close.

Trapper shoved a square medical bag against her chest. "Come on, Pierce!" he shouted. His voice barely carried over the sounds of gunfire and screaming. "Don't stand there like a goddamn target!"

He grabbed her wrist and all but dragged her toward the fighting. She wrenched free from his grasp. She wouldn't be dead weight on the field; she couldn't allow that. He cast her a glance over his shoulder, concern in his eyes, determination on his face. With a nod, he picked up his pace and she followed. He halted alongside a trio of injured men. Whistling to a nearby litter, he instructed two of the men to be hauled away—dead. Virginia dropped to her knees beside the remaining man. Half his face was gone, blown away by a mortar shell. Bile churned in her stomach at the sight, but she focused on assessing the rest of his injures. He was breathing, but only just. She took his wrist and felt for a pulse.

"Got anything?" Trapper crouched beside her, wincing at the sight of the man's wounded face.

"Barely." Virginia scrabbled for a roll of gauze in her pack. A few hundred yards away a bomb dropped, launching clumps of dirt and human body parts into the air. Her hands shook and her ears rang as she fumbled through wrapping the man's face. "He's still with us, though."

"That's gotta do it." Trapper pulled her back and nodded for her to pick up the man's legs. They deposited him on a stretcher and, ducking to remain low, dropped the stretcher on an overcrowded van.

They moved across the field as a team. She followed his lead, dropped when he dropped, ran when he ran. For the first time, they worked together rather than at odds. Hawkeye would have been pleased. Her brain switched off and she worked without thought. If she lingered too long over a dead body or spent an extra second on a wounded boy, she could be blown to smithereens. It was easier to not think.

"Virginia, get that kid right there!"

Turning, she followed Trapper's pointed finger to the slumped body of a young black man. She rushed to his side, dodging a bullet, and dropped to her stomach beside him. For a moment, she cradled her helmet against her head and focused on the sound of her breathing. God, her head hurt. How many times had she been shot at today? Nearly killed? She didn't think she could count. If she made it back to the aid station alive, she would never leave again—not even to go back to the seventy-seven or home. She never wanted to see the sky again, not filled with gunpowder and smoke like it was. The boy beside her groaned, and she forced herself to inch closer to him.

She gently shook his shoulder. "Can you hear me, soldier?"

He groaned in response.

Giving him a quick once over, she couldn't immediately ascertain his injury. "Where are you hurt?" she asked. The question was stupid, she knew. He could barely answer her. His eyes were screwed shut in pain and, though he was aware of her presence, he was unresponsive. She would have to turn him over and figure it out herself. Her only concern was the close proximity of the fighting. Staying too long could cost them both their lives.

With a glance over her shoulder, Virginia located Trapper and called him over. The gun over his shoulder swayed as he jogged. Her confidence boosted a measure at the sight. He was more confident with a firearm should anything go wrong.

"Watch my back, will you?"

He slid the gun from his shoulder without question, his eyes already scanning the area surrounding them. "No sweat, princess."

Grunting, Virginia turned the boy over to his back. She gasped and fell back on her haunches. Rather like the man with the blown away face, this soldier's entire chest cavity was exposed. She could see the outline of his ribs beneath muscle and tissue, and his intestines slithered out and onto the ground. To her left, Trapper looked at the injury and cursed.

Virginia shook her head back and forth as blood seeped from the wound. "What do I do?" Her mouth ran dry and for the life of her, she could remember nothing of her medical training.

"Shit—I don't know." Trapper lowered his gun and knelt beside the boy. "I don't know if he would even make it to a stretcher."

"Maybe I should…" She leaned forward and took the entrails in her hands. They were slimy and covered in mucus and blood. Though she had dealt with many an organ before, never this way. She gagged as she hastily shoved them back in the soldier's body. The soldier cried out in pain, and she grimaced.

"My… ma…" he gasped.

Hands stilling in his stomach, Virginia held her breath. She shared a look with Trapper then placed her blood-coated fingers on the boy's shoulder. "What was that?" she asked. Her voice shook, despite her best attempts at keeping it calm.

"My ma…" He drew in a sharp breath. Blood gurgled within his throat. He was dying.

"Your mother is going to be so proud of you." Virginia smoothed back the hair on his sweaty forehead. "You'll be home to see her soon."

"I… I don't…"

Not fifty feet away, a bomb exploded. Virginia felt the blast before she heard it. The force of the blast launched her skyward, and she felt herself tumble in the air like a weed. When she landed, her head knocked hard against the ground. Sparks swam along her vision. The sky turned hazy, and she could hear nothing but the ringing in her ears. She tried to lift her head, but it was too heavy. With a moan, she fell back against the ground.

For a long moment, she lay, somewhere between life and death, listening to the sounds of war all around her. She thought of home—of Crabapple Cove's farmhouse, of the way it smelled of apples in the summer time and wood smoke in the winter. She thought of Philadelphia—of her mother and of her long-gone father. She wondered what it would have been like to become a mother herself, if she and Hawkeye would have ever had children had they been given the chance.

Trapper. She remembered him. He must be somewhere close by.

Rolling to her knees, she crawled throughout the debris scattered in her path. Pain radiated through her side—from what she wasn't sure—but she kept going. Rocks and shards of metal embedded themselves in her hands. It didn't matter; none of it matter. She kept going until she found him.

He lay within a ditch far away from the injured boy, having been launched like her after the blast. His blonde curls were covered in dust and blood and bits of broken metal. Virginia pulled herself alongside him, relief flooding her body when his dirt-caked eyes opened.

"Oh thank God," she breathed.

"I'm not sure…" He winced in pain. "I'm not sure we're thankin'… the same god…"

She cast her eyes down, following his gaze. "Oh, Trapper."

His entire lower extremities, from the waist down, were gone. She hadn't noticed before, her relief clouding her attention, but he was blown apart. There was no other way to describe it, no flowery or pretty words. He was a man torn in two.

She grabbed his hand. Their palms were slick with blood. Already, she could see him fading.

"Hold on, John," she said, squeezing his fingers. "We're going get you help."

He snorted. "I won't hold my breath."

"Don't talk like that!" She frowned, though deep down, she knew he was right. There was no way out of this injury. Still, she spoke hopefully. "We're going to get you back to the seventy-seven and Hawkeye will fix you. He's the best there is… you know that."

Trapper's face contorted, and his hold on her hand tightened painfully. "My wife… my girls… tell them—"

"No!" Her voice cracked with emotion. Tears blurred his face. "Stop talking like you're dying!"

"Virginia," he gasped. "You're a doctor…"

Yes, she was—and she knew.

"Tell my girls I love 'em, okay?" He shifted suddenly, his face gone ashen white. After a brief spasm, he relaxed and continued. "And tell Hawk…"

He fell silent. Virginia hesitated. She waited to see if he would finish his sentence, but he never did. He was gone and she was left on her own, surrounded by war and heartache and bitter memories. She fell back, gut-wrenching sobs shaking her body. The hard earth dug into her spine, and pain radiated from her ribcage.

A voice pierced through her bubble. "Ma'am? Ma'am, can you hear me?"

Her head lolled to the side, her eyes scanning Trapper's limp form. "He's dead," she whispered.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Am I dead?"

"No, ma'am. But you're injured. We're gonna fly you out."

"Don't leave him here."

"Of course not."

"His wife and daughters…" She tightened her grip on his hand. "They should be told he was a hero."

"Certainly. We're gonna lift you now."

The litter carriers lifted her and placed her on a stretcher. Virginia held onto Trapper's hand until distance tore them apart. Her eyes drifted shut. She felt no pain.


	17. Chapter 14

**A/N: **_One of the few chapters from Hawkeye's POV. Apologies for the long wait._

* * *

_I'll be your soldier._

_MASH Unit 4077. April, 1951._

Things around the seventy-seventh were different. Hawkeye was no fool—he knew change was coming.

Henry was gone, replaced by an old fart named Potter. Frank's long-standing request for a transfer had suddenly been approved. His replacement was taller, uglier, and somehow more impossible—Doctor Winchester. And then there was BJ Hunnicutt. Where he'd come from and why—and what BJ stood for—no one knew. All the same, Hawkeye wasn't convinced on any of the new arrivals.

He couldn't wait for Trapper and Virginia to return.

"Mind if I sit?" The fresh-faced Hunnicutt gestured to an open spot at the table.

Hawkeye looked up from his slop. He looked left and right, surveying the empty table. "Nobody's here to stop you."

With a chuckle, BJ slid to the bench. He speared a chunk of chicken, stuffed it in his mouth, then blanched. "Two weeks and I'm still not used to this stuff."

Hawkeye grimaced. "Almost two years and it still makes my stomach churn. Don't worry, though. We give out stomach pumps for free around here."

BJ shook his head on another laugh. "You sure have something smart to say about everything, don't you?"

"Geez! You're starting to sound like my wife—and my mother!"

BJ lowered his fork and narrowed his eyes. "Your wife is your mother?"

A beat passed before Hawkeye allowed a grin to spread across his face. He offered his hand and BJ shook it, his grasp firm.

"We haven't really been formally introduced even though we sleep in the same room," Hawkeye said. "I'm Benjamin Pierce. Call me Hawkeye."

"BJ Hunnicutt."

"What's the BJ stand for?"

"Whatever you want." BJ tore his piece of bread in half. "You really been here nearly two years?"

The sound of the word years made Hawkeye want to vomit, but he ignored the feeling. As it usually did, it would pass.

He managed a wry grin as he nodded. "Each day is like waking up in hell."

"Well, I'm sure things will get ironed out before too long. I've got my wife and my baby to get back to, after all."

Hawkeye wanted to quip something along the lines of BJ's wife also being his baby, but he kept his mouth shut. The poor guy was so green it made his skin crawl. God, he had no idea what was coming for him. In a funny sort of way, the flaxen-haired, California native was a strange reflection of himself as a black-haired, New Englander at the start of the war.

Instead of making a joke, Hawkeye lowered his voice. He looked at his tray and pushed his food back and forth. "How long have you been married?"

"Just about three years. Erin—that's my daughter—was born right before I got drafted." He withdrew a square photograph from his back pocket and placed it on the table. "That's her."

An oval faced baby stared back at Hawkeye. Her cheeks were full, her thin hair flat against her head, her newborn eyes squeezed shut. Her mouth was open in a circle, as if she were yawning. Hawkeye shifted in his seat.

"She's beautiful," he said.

"You have any kids?"

"No, but my wife has a cat."

Throwing his head back in laughter, BJ said, "Cats can be a handful, too, I'm sure."

"You have no idea."

BJ cleared his throat, pushing his tray to the side, and folded his hands on the table. He looked like a man prepared to make a business offer the way his eyes glistened with intensity. Hawkeye prepared himself.

"Margaret told me your wife is at the front, that she's here in Korea."

Bullseye. BJ obviously hadn't been given the memo.

Rising from the table, Hawkeye headed for the door. BJ scrambled after him into the yard. A cool spring breeze rushed through Hawkeye's shirt. He wished he'd worn a jacket; the weather wasn't ready for short-sleeves.

"Hey—what's the rush? Was it something I said?"

Before Hawkeye could explain that since her leaving no one had possessed the balls to talk to him about both Virginia and Trapper, the alarm sounded. The PA crackled to life.

_"__Attention, attention. Incoming wounded in the yard. All available personnel to positions."_

"That's our call, buddy." Hawkeye clapped BJ's shoulder. "Ain't no rest for the weary."

BJ shook his head and followed close behind Hawkeye's heels. "You can say that again."

The short frame of Coronel Potter hurried past, shouting orders as a bus squealed to a halt in front of the hospital. Hawkeye pulled the back doors open and shouted for Klinger to prepare the litters. Even after a twelve-hour day, the rush of adrenaline at every new arrival surged through his veins. He clambered into the back of the bus.

"Welcome, welcome, comrades," he said. "We're delighted you've chosen us as your hotel."

A medic glanced up from his place squatting near a wounded man. "You a doctor?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"This guy's heart is racing somethin' crazy. I've never seen anything like it before."

Hawkeye crouched beside the medic. The wounded soldier was out cold, his face gray. Hawkeye took his pulse. Sure enough, the medic was right.

"Tachycardia. Take him in the E.R. and tell a nurse to get him prepped for surgery."

Rising, he moved down the line. The majority of wounded were victims to shrapnel or other debris. One soldier had lost his eye, though he still clutched it in the palm of his hand. Another soldier would need brain surgery—something the seventy-seven wasn't equipped for. Hawkeye ordered him up to the copter pad for immediate transfer.

"Ah, hey… Hawkeye, I think you should see this…"

Hawkeye turned at the sound of BJ's uncertain voice. He frowned. Now was not the time for uncertainty or fear or any of the emotions which came when facing those bloodied and broken. His jaw clenched. Surely whatever it was, BJ could handle it.

Crouching so his head didn't hit the roof, Hawkeye meandered his way down the aisle. He stopped beside BJ.

"What?" He couldn't help the irritation in his voice. There were fifteen other men who needed to be checked over. Who knew how many of them needed immediate surgery? Time couldn't be wasted.

BJ lifted the yellow triage tag attached to the wounded soldier's blanket. "Is this your wife?"

In an instant, time became irrelevant. The fifteen other men—moaning, hurt, bleeding—became nothing. Hawkeye reached for the tag, his vision blurred with anxiety. The words on the tag etched themselves along his heart as he read.

_Virginia Pierce. Head and chest wounds. Immediate T1. _

He sagged backwards and bumped into the soldier on the other side of the bus. The man cried out in pain. Surprised, Hawkeye spun on his heel at the sound. BJ grasped his shoulder. Hawkeye saw his mouth moved but couldn't hear the words. He could only stare.

Virginia lay prone on the bunk. A gash on her forehead trickled with blood. Her hair, normally shiny and soft, was matted with gunk and dust. Something jagged propped the blanket covering her body. Against his better judgement, he pulled back the blanket. A large piece of debris had lodged itself along her ribcage. The blood flow around the debris had stemmed and congealed yet the object was so foreign, so uninvited, it was all Hawkeye could do to not rip it out at once.

"BJ," he breathed, swaying on his feet.

"Okay, okay—it's gonna be okay. Somebody come get Hawkeye, please!" Holding Hawkeye's shoulders, BJ steered him toward the exit.

Sweat dripped down Hawkeye's brow as he stumbled from the bus. He felt hot and sticky. Giving his head a rough shake, he rubbed his eyes. It was a dream—that's all it was, a dream. Virginia was fine. She was home in Maine, rubbing that stupid fat cat's back. He was here, yes, but she was safe and that's what mattered.

"Oh my god!" Margaret's horrified scream tore Hawkeye from his stupor.

He ran to her side and grasped her elbow. "What? What is it?"

Margaret stared at him, her eyes wide as saucers. The telegram in her hand shook with the force of her nerves. "Trapper is dead!"

Something in Hawkeye's mind switched. His nerves went to steel, and the hot and sticky feeling evaporated. Back straight, he motioned for the nearest litter to stop. He glanced over the tag.

"This man can wait." He checked another soldier waiting on the ground. "Kellye, get this man prepped, will you? God! Why is everyone so slow today? Don't you know there's a war on?"

He worked triage until Klinger took over. Klinger looked Hawkeye's face over several times, as if something were poised on the tip of his tongue, but the man never said anything. Hawkeye continued on to pre-op. He scrubbed his arms raw, his brain in auto-pilot. He was vaguely aware of something important, something pressing, he needed to attend to, but he wasn't sure what is was. Nothing mattered much anymore anyway.

"What the hell is he doing in here?" From his place at an operating table, Potter pointed a finger at Hawkeye when he entered the operating room.

Hawkeye frowned. "What are you talking about? What the hell do you think I'm doing in here?"

"I think you're asking for trouble!" The old man gestured for a nurse. "Get him out of here!"

"What are you talking about?" Hawkeye ripped his arm out of the nurse's grasp. "There's wounded, Potter!"

"And your wife is one of them!" Potter looked to BJ. "She's on Hunnicutt's table now, so I don't want you here in here, Pierce. I don't want to tell you again!"

"You're crazy, old man," Hawkeye shouted as he was pushed from the OR. "I don't have a wife!"

.::.

Hours later, Hawkeye sat nursing a cup of coffee. Crickets chirped in the grass. The cool breeze of morning had turned to a sharp wind as day turned to night. Still, he sat outside The Swamp and let the wind course over his body.

The light in the OR burned bright. He drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair, waiting.

Trapper was dead. Virginia was wounded.

Earlier, he'd forgotten them both—his best friend and his wife. It was easier that way. He hadn't wanted to face the music. The music was just too awful. But now, with stars in the sky and several hours to think, the music was still as awful as it had been when he first heard it. Only now he had to listen.

He wanted to puke. He _had _puked—twice!

There were no words to describe how he felt. Empty came the closet.

"Cold night."

Hawkeye looked up. Father Mulcahy stood to the side, his arms wrapped around his chest. Looking back to the hospital, Hawkeye nodded.

"Yeah."

"Can I sit?" Mulcahy pointed to an overturned bucket.

"Be my guest."

For a moment, the pair was quiet. Hawkeye knew what was coming and, for once, he welcomed it.

"You've had quite the day. How are you feeling?"

Hawkeye sighed and ran a hand down his face. "Tired, upset…"

"We're all going to miss Trapper. He was a beacon of light in such a dark place. And we're all rallying behind Virginia."

Unbidden, tears rose to Hawkeye's eyes. Though he'd gotten sick twice, he had yet to cry. He refused to cry in this God-forsaken place. Instead, he sat a little straighter and took a sip of coffee. The hot liquid burnt his tongue.

"Have you had any word on her?"

"No, not yet."

"I'm sure she's in good hands. BJ seems like a capable doctor."

Hawkeye said nothing. How many hours had passed since she entered surgery? Six? Seven? He'd been beside BJ in the OR these past two weeks but hadn't scrutinized the man's work. Now his wife was under BJ's needle. If anything happened to her… But of course, that's what he threatened Trapper and Trapper was dead.

"Can I pray for you, Hawkeye?"

Though he was born and raised Catholic, Hawkeye wasn't much of a praying anymore, but he nodded nonetheless. He figured it couldn't hurt. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes tight. Before Mulcahy could begin, Margaret's voice interrupted.

"Hawkeye?"

Hawkeye's head snapped up. He stood fast. "Is she…" He left the implication hanging, unable to finish the sentence himself.

Margaret's face was soft in the light of the streetlamp. "She's awake. She's asking to see you."


	18. Chapter 15

_You—it's always been you._

_MASH Unit 4077. April, 1951._

Virginia groaned as consciousness began to surface.

Was she dead? God, she hoped she was dead. It would make everything so much easier if she were dead.

She lay in a hospital bed, body weary. Harsh light triggered the headache which lay dormant in the back of her mind. She shifted and winced in pain, eyes screwing shut.

"Oh yeah, you don't want to do that." An unfamiliar voice met her ears, and she opened her eyes. A fresh-faced man with blond hair and sun-kissed skin stared back at her. "Name's BJ," he said. "I did your operation."

Virginia went to shake her head, but found it too painful. She settled on frowning. "You aren't allowed to do that. Only doctors are allowed to operate here."

BJ smiled in earnest. "Actually, I am a doctor. I'm new here, just arrived in country. See"—He held up a pair of newly minted dog-tags.—"I'm qualified."

She hesitated, unsure of what to say. "What day is it?"

"Tuesday."

"I'm not dead?"

With a chuckle, BJ adjusted the blanket draped across Virginia's chest. He shook his head, smiling at her with an almost brotherly fondness. His face was warm and inviting, so unlike the faces she'd grown accustomed to at the front.

The front… The memories came flooding back—Cleaver and dragging the dead bodies from the field. The noise, the smells, the pain. Trapper.

"John—he's…" She left the question hanging, unable to finish the sentence herself.

BJ's gaze went blank, and he shrugged. "I don't know who that is—I'm sorry. I've only been here a week, and the crew you came in with didn't have a John. I can ask around, though, if you want?"

"He's dead." Virginia's head lolled to the side, away from BJ. "He died."

There was a pregnant pause. She heard BJ's lab coat rustle as he shifted in his seat. He cleared his throat. Then mumbled, "I'm sorry."

She swallowed hard past the lump in her throat. "Me too."

"Look, you've been beat up pretty bad." He touched her arm, caught her attention, and she met his gaze. "You're lucky you got here when you did. That shrapnel just about tore up your lungs for good. You'll need to be on bedrest awhile before you get back out there, so take it easy with all the talking and moving, okay?"

She nodded. "Thanks."

"Shout if you need anything." Rising from his stool, he held up a hand as he considered his recommendation. "Don't actually shout, though. Hit the bedframe or something—anything to keep from straining your lungs. Doctor's orders."

He left with a squeeze to her shoulder and she was alone.

The post-op ward was quiet and dimly lit. Several other beds were occupied by sleeping soldiers, and the light in Radar's office was out. It must be night. Laying in the hospital bed as she was, it felt unnatural to be on the other side. She should be the nurse on watch, not the nurse who needed watching.

She sank deep within the bedcovers and sighed. Every inch of her body ached—her heart, too. She'd seen so much and felt so much and lost so much… She couldn't put it into words. It was easier to forget. She wondered if Hawkeye knew she was here; she wondered if he cared. Perhaps he was sorry she made it through surgery. It would be easier for him if she hadn't. Then his troubles would be gone.

A dull pain throbbed on the left side of her ribcage. She pressed against the ache and drew in a sharp breath. Tears filled her eyes. She wanted to cry—truly, she did. Only it hurt. The tears stung, the inhale and exhale of breath shook her ribs, and the congestion in her nose couldn't be relieved without filling her chest with unnecessary pressure. As with her memories, she pushed the tears away. She wiped her cheeks and cleared her throat. She'd rest now; that was all she could do. She only prayed the nightmares stayed away.

"Virginia?"

Margaret's voice kept her from surrendering to blessed sleep. Twisting, Virginia turned to crane her neck over her shoulder. Her friend stood at the foot of the bed, her grin revealing her gleaming teeth. A familiar face—the sight brought the tears back to Virginia's eyes.

As if in relief, Virginia exhaled. "Margaret." She reached for the other woman, who took a seat gingerly on the side of the bed.

Margaret clasped Virginia's hand between both of hers. Unshed tears glimmered in her eyes. "Thank heaven you're alright," she said.

"Trapper…"

"Yes." Margaret nodded. A shadow crossed her face, and she looked down at the bedsheets. "Yes, he's gone."

"I couldn't…" Virginia's jaw tightened as she fought the moisture clouding her vision. "I couldn't save him."

"No one expected you to. He was torn in two, Virginia. There was nothing you could have done."

The pair fell quiet as the weight of Trapper's death settled on their shoulders. Once the silence had stretched too thin, Virginia asked the question burning on the forefront of her mind. "Where's Hawkeye?"

Margaret's brow tightened, and she cast a glance toward the door. After a moment, she turned back. "I think he's outside. Are you sure you want to see him tonight? You should rest."

"I want to see him." She hesitated, afraid of the answer to her following question. "Does he not want to see me?"

Margaret all but guffawed. She squeezed Virginia's arm. "Not want to see you? He's been beside himself since we found out you were on that bus! Coronel Potter had to throw him out of the operating room—twice!" She sobered a moment, her laughter fading alongside her smile. Her stare went intense; it made Virginia squirm. "He's changed since you've gone."

Virginia's stomach twisted. She'd been afraid of that. Afraid that, once out of sight and out of mind, Hawkeye would be right back to his same old philandering. She prayed to whatever god would listen he hadn't.

"Changed how?"

Margaret shrugged. "I don't know. I can't put my finger on it. He's just… different." She stood. "I'll go get him." She shuffled through the rows of beds until she reached the door. Hand on the frame, she looked over her shoulder and smiled. "I'm glad you're back."

The minutes between Margaret's departure and Hawkeye's arrival seemed to stretch like the fabric of an old sweater. The clock on the wall ticked loud and incessant. Virginia's palms went moist with sweat.

She considered the last six months and how rocky her relationship with Hawkeye had been. One moment she'd never hated any one person more and the next she couldn't keep her eyes off him. She considered their parting before she'd gone to the front, his humor in a moment of great uncertainty. How different they were—and yet how she loved him despite that. She considered their agreement to be friends and colleagues before returning to their roles as husband and wife. She'd barely had time to process their agreement before leaving alongside Trapper. Now that she was home, she wasn't sure she could continue being his friend without also being his wife. She knew that now.

The door banged open. Virginia gasped, startled from her thoughts, and several patients roused from their sleep. Hawkeye stood in the doorframe, all long arms and legs and face drawn tight with worry. His eyes scanned the room until they locked on her. Relief washed over his body. His tense shoulders went slack and he all but stumbled as he rushed for her bedside.

Before she could say anything, Hawkeye grabbed either side of her face and peppered her face with kisses. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth—whatever skin he could claim, he did. All the while, he whispered over and over, as if in prayer, "I love you."

He dropped to his knees by the bed, cradling her hands in his. The emotion in his gaze stole her breath away. "When I heard…" he breathed. He shook his head and she could have sworn she saw a tear slide down his cheek. "I thought I'd lost you."

Virginia sat in shock. Her chest heaved with the force of her shallow breaths. She couldn't tear her eyes away from his, sure she looked a dumbstruck fool. In all her years of knowing Hawkeye, in all her years of marriage to him, he'd told her he loved her only a handful of times. He wasn't prone to gestures of romance or impassioned speeches after the hunt for her hand was complete. She'd grown accustomed to his simple gestures—the dry cleaning he picked up every Thursday, the gardening work he did that she hated, the way he tolerated their cat. Hearing him say he loved her now, after all the time and pain between them, it made her heart swell to bursting.

Blinking, she forced herself to focus. "I thought we were just going to be friends…"

For a moment, Hawkeye stared at her. Uncertainty flitted across his face then he broke into a wide grin. He leaned forward, kissing her. "Only friends? With the best-looking nurse—" She held up a finger, and he corrected himself. "Sorry—best-looking doctor in this hell-hole? You don't know me at all, woman."

For the first time in what felt years, Virginia smiled in pure happiness. She threw her arms around his neck, and he weaved his arms around her middle. They sat so entwined she could not tell where he ended and she began; she wouldn't have it any other way. She nestled her head in the crook of his neck. He smelled of a long day's work, of the sharp Korean air, and gin.

"Virginia?" he mumbled, his lips moving softly along the side of her neck.

"Hmm?" She held him only tighter.

"I want to give you something." He drew back and held her at arm's length.

Slowly, he lifted his dogtags over his head. Her wedding ring jingled alongside the tags and her heart skipped a beat. She swallowed past the dryness in her throat and watched as he withdrew the ring and held it out to her.

"I want you to have this back," he said. "You're my wife and that's how I want it to be."

Virginia laughed. "How terribly unromantic!"

Hawkeye frowned. "Unromantic? I'd say this is the most romantic thing I've done in years!"

Virginia threaded her fingers with his and took the ring with her other hand. She held it up to the light. A glare caught on a chip in the faded circle, and she thought the nicks and marks suited the ring well. It was like their marriage—bruised and scarred but still intact, after all this time.

Turning her gaze back to him, she lifted a brow. "So we're not friends?"

He shook his head. "No, that position has been filled."

"Well…" She handed the ring back. "You have to put it on."

"I can do that."

He did, sliding the ring onto her finger and holding it there like he had on their wedding day. He stared at the ring before looking back at her. Leaning forward, he kissed her again, soft and sweet and everything she had missed.

"It's always been you," he whispered against her mouth. "Ever since I saw you, I knew you'd be the one."

She pulled back and rubbed the tears out of her eyes. "Stop," she said. "Don't embarrass yourself. You've never been one for lovey-dovey speeches so don't start now."

A gruff voice stole the moment, accented with authority and charm. "Ah, so this is the missus who's been giving me such much hell the past few days?"

Hawkeye looked over his shoulder. He sat straight and sniffed hard, the mist disappearing from his eyes. Clearing his throat, he motioned to the short man with a nod of his head. "Beth, this is Coronel Potter. He's the new Henry Blake."

"Pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Pleasure's all mine, ma'am." Potter shook Virginia's hand, his grasp cracking her bones. "Anybody who can make Pierce act like such a damn scatterbrain is some sort of powerful woman. I see why now. It's good to finally put a face to the name."

"It's four in the morning, Coronel. Why are you up? Shouldn't you be dreaming of your horse?"

"If you must know, I was up for a little private time in the privy, Pierce, but I saw BJ talking to the Father and had to know what all the fuss was about."

"Busybody."

Potter rolled his eyes. "Good to know your fantastic humor is on its way back, son." He nodded to Virginia. "Good to meet you, Virginia, but you'll have to forgive me. I'm half-asleep and about ready to fall over. I'll talk to you both in the morning."

When they were alone again, Virginia squeezed Hawkeye's hand. "We have to talk about what happened," she said.

Hawkeye glanced at the floor, a shadow on his brow. "Not tonight," he finally said, his gaze drawn back to her. "We will, I promise. But tonight, I just want to be with you and know you're safe."

"There's not much room on this bed."

"I'm happy to sit."

Virginia lowered to her back while Hawkeye repositioned himself on a chair beside her bed. He crossed one leg over the other and unearthed a file full of papers. Smoothing the hair across her forehead, he smiled down at her.

"Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

With his promise written across her heart, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

**A/N: _Apologies for the very long delay. _**


End file.
